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hayatheauthor · 4 months ago

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The Anatomy of Passing Out: When, Why, and How to Write It

Passing out, or syncope, is a loss of consciousness that can play a pivotal role in storytelling, adding drama, suspense, or emotional weight to a scene. Whether it’s due to injury, fear, or exhaustion, the act of fainting can instantly shift the stakes in your story.

But how do you write it convincingly? How do you ensure it’s not overly dramatic or medically inaccurate? In this guide, I’ll walk you through the causes, stages, and aftermath of passing out. By the end, you’ll be able to craft a vivid, realistic fainting scene that enhances your narrative without feeling clichéd or contrived.

2. Common Causes of Passing Out

Characters faint for a variety of reasons, and understanding the common causes can help you decide when and why your character might lose consciousness. Below are the major categories that can lead to fainting, each with their own narrative implications.

Physical Causes

Blood Loss: A sudden drop in blood volume from a wound can cause fainting as the body struggles to maintain circulation and oxygen delivery to the brain.

Dehydration: When the body doesn’t have enough fluids, blood pressure can plummet, leading to dizziness and fainting.

Low Blood Pressure (Hypotension): Characters with chronic low blood pressure may faint after standing up too quickly, due to insufficient blood reaching the brain.

Intense Pain: The body can shut down in response to severe pain, leading to fainting as a protective mechanism.

Heatstroke: Extreme heat can cause the body to overheat, resulting in dehydration and loss of consciousness.

Psychological Causes

Emotional Trauma or Shock: Intense fear, grief, or surprise can trigger a fainting episode, as the brain becomes overwhelmed.

Panic Attacks: The hyperventilation and increased heart rate associated with anxiety attacks can deprive the brain of oxygen, causing a character to faint.

Fear-Induced Fainting (Vasovagal Syncope): This occurs when a character is so afraid that their body’s fight-or-flight response leads to fainting.

Environmental Causes

Lack of Oxygen: Situations like suffocation, high altitudes, or enclosed spaces with poor ventilation can deprive the brain of oxygen and cause fainting.

Poisoning or Toxins: Certain chemicals or gasses (e.g., carbon monoxide) can interfere with the body’s ability to transport oxygen, leading to unconsciousness.

3. The Stages of Passing Out

To write a realistic fainting scene, it’s important to understand the stages of syncope. Fainting is usually a process, and characters will likely experience several key warning signs before they fully lose consciousness.

Pre-Syncope (The Warning Signs)

Before losing consciousness, a character will typically go through a pre-syncope phase. This period can last anywhere from a few seconds to a couple of minutes, and it’s full of physical indicators that something is wrong.

Light-Headedness and Dizziness: A feeling that the world is spinning, which can be exacerbated by movement.

Blurred or Tunnel Vision: The character may notice their vision narrowing or going dark at the edges.

Ringing in the Ears: Often accompanied by a feeling of pressure or muffled hearing.

Weakness in Limbs: The character may feel unsteady, like their legs can’t support them.

Sweating and Nausea: A sudden onset of cold sweats, clamminess, and nausea is common.

Rapid Heartbeat (Tachycardia): The heart races as it tries to maintain blood flow to the brain.

Syncope (The Loss of Consciousness)

When the character faints, the actual loss of consciousness happens quickly, often within seconds of the pre-syncope signs.

The Body Going Limp: The character will crumple to the ground, usually without the ability to break their fall.

Breathing: Breathing continues, but it may be shallow and rapid.

Pulse: While fainting, the heart rate can either slow down dramatically or remain rapid, depending on the cause.

Duration: Most fainting episodes last from a few seconds to a minute or two. Prolonged unconsciousness may indicate a more serious issue.

Post-Syncope (The Recovery)

After a character regains consciousness, they’ll typically feel groggy and disoriented. This phase can last several minutes.

Disorientation: The character may not immediately remember where they are or what happened.

Lingering Dizziness: Standing up too quickly after fainting can trigger another fainting spell.

Nausea and Headache: After waking up, the character might feel sick or develop a headache.

Weakness: Even after regaining consciousness, the body might feel weak or shaky for several hours.

4. The Physical Effects of Fainting

Fainting isn’t just about losing consciousness—there are physical consequences too. Depending on the circumstances, your character may suffer additional injuries from falling, especially if they hit something on the way down.

Impact on the Body

Falling Injuries: When someone faints, they usually drop straight to the ground, often hitting their head or body in the process. Characters may suffer cuts, bruises, or even broken bones.

Head Injuries: Falling and hitting their head on the floor or a nearby object can lead to concussions or more severe trauma.

Scrapes and Bruises: If your character faints on a rough surface or near furniture, they may sustain scrapes, bruises, or other minor injuries.

Physical Vulnerability

Uncontrolled Fall: The character’s body crumples or falls in a heap. Without the ability to brace themselves, they are at risk for further injuries.

Exposed While Unconscious: While fainted, the character is vulnerable to their surroundings. This could lead to danger in the form of attackers, environmental hazards, or secondary injuries from their immediate environment.

Signs to Look For While Unconscious

Shallow Breathing: The character's breathing will typically become shallow or irregular while they’re unconscious.

Pale or Flushed Skin: Depending on the cause of fainting, a character’s skin may become very pale or flushed.

Twitching or Muscle Spasms: In some cases, fainting can be accompanied by brief muscle spasms or jerking movements.

5. Writing Different Types of Fainting

There are different types of fainting, and each can serve a distinct narrative purpose. The way a character faints can help enhance the scene's tension or emotion.

Sudden Collapse

In this case, the character blacks out without any warning. This type of fainting is often caused by sudden physical trauma or exhaustion.

No Warning: The character simply drops, startling both themselves and those around them.

Used in High-Tension Scenes: For example, a character fighting in a battle may suddenly collapse from blood loss, raising the stakes instantly.

Slow and Gradual Fainting

This happens when a character feels themselves fading, usually due to emotional stress or exhaustion.

Internal Monologue: The character might have time to realize something is wrong and reflect on what’s happening before they lose consciousness.

Adds Suspense: The reader is aware that the character is fading but may not know when they’ll drop.

Dramatic Fainting

Some stories call for a more theatrical faint, especially in genres like historical fiction or period dramas.

Exaggerated Swooning: A character might faint from shock or fear, clutching their chest or forehead before collapsing.

Evokes a Specific Tone: This type of fainting works well for dramatic, soap-opera-like scenes where the fainting is part of the tension.

6. Aftermath: How Characters Feel After Waking Up

When your character wakes up from fainting, they’re not going to bounce back immediately. There are often lingering effects that last for minutes—or even hours.

Physical Recovery

Dizziness and Nausea: Characters might feel off-balance or sick to their stomach when they first come around.

Headaches: A headache is a common symptom post-fainting, especially if the character hits their head.

Body Aches: Muscle weakness or stiffness may persist, especially if the character fainted for a long period or in an awkward position.

Emotional and Mental Impact

Confusion: The character may not remember why they fainted or what happened leading up to the event.

Embarrassment: Depending on the situation, fainting can be humiliating, especially if it happened in front of others.

Fear: Characters who faint from emotional shock might be afraid of fainting again or of the situation that caused it.

7. Writing Tips: Making It Believable

Writing a fainting scene can be tricky. If not handled properly, it can come across as melodramatic or unrealistic. Here are some key tips to ensure your fainting scenes are both believable and impactful.

Understand the Cause

First and foremost, ensure that the cause of fainting makes sense in the context of your story. Characters shouldn’t pass out randomly—there should always be a logical reason for it.

Foreshadow the Fainting: If your character is losing blood, suffering from dehydration, or undergoing extreme emotional stress, give subtle clues that they might pass out. Show their discomfort building before they collapse.

Avoid Overuse: Fainting should be reserved for moments of high stakes or significant plot shifts. Using it too often diminishes its impact.

Balance Realism with Drama

While you want your fainting scene to be dramatic, don’t overdo it. Excessively long or theatrical collapses can feel unrealistic.

Keep It Short: Fainting typically happens fast. Avoid dragging the loss of consciousness out for too long, as it can slow down the pacing of your story.

Don’t Always Save the Character in Time: In some cases, let the character hit the ground. This adds realism, especially if they’re fainting due to an injury or traumatic event.

Consider the Aftermath

Make sure to give attention to what happens after the character faints. This part is often overlooked, but it’s important for maintaining realism and continuity.

Lingering Effects: Mention the character’s disorientation, dizziness, or confusion upon waking up. It’s rare for someone to bounce back immediately after fainting.

Reactions of Others: If other characters are present, how do they react? Are they alarmed? Do they rush to help, or are they unsure how to respond?

Avoid Overly Romanticized Fainting

In some genres, fainting is used as a dramatic or romantic plot device, but this can feel outdated and unrealistic. Try to focus on the genuine physical or emotional toll fainting takes on a character.

Stay Away from Clichés: Avoid having your character faint simply to be saved by a love interest. If there’s a romantic element, make sure it’s woven naturally into the plot rather than feeling forced.

8. Common Misconceptions About Fainting

Fainting is often misrepresented in fiction, with exaggerated symptoms or unrealistic recoveries. Here are some common myths about fainting, and the truth behind them.

Myth 1: Fainting Always Comes Without Warning

While some fainting episodes are sudden, most people experience warning signs (lightheadedness, blurred vision) before passing out. This gives the character a chance to notice something is wrong before losing consciousness.

Myth 2: Fainting Is Dramatic and Slow

In reality, fainting happens quickly—usually within a few seconds of the first warning signs. Characters won’t have time for long speeches or dramatic gestures before collapsing.

Myth 3: Characters Instantly Bounce Back

Many stories show characters waking up and being perfectly fine after fainting, but this is rarely the case. Fainting usually leaves people disoriented, weak, or even nauseous for several minutes afterward.

Myth 4: Fainting Is Harmless

In some cases, fainting can indicate a serious medical issue, like heart problems or severe dehydration. If your character is fainting frequently, it should be addressed in the story as a sign of something more severe.

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks?

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Quillology with Haya Sameer; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors! While you’re at it, don’t forget to head over to my TikTok and Instagram profiles @hayatheauthor to learn more about my WIP and writing journey!

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dindjarindiaries · 4 months ago

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Distraction

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompts: "You need to distract me. Do something, anything." & Kissing as a distraction

main masterlist • prompt masterlist

Din's visor tilted at the sight of you, his modulated voice as charming as ever as he greeted you at your doorway. "Hey."

All you could do was blink at him in response, your gaze transfixed on the sight of his gloved hand clutching the hilt of a blade that was lodged between his shoulder and his chest.

"Can I come in?"

His words finally snapped you back into action. You all but tugged him inside, the anxious knot wounding itself even tighter within your chest when you heard him grunt at the movement. After securing the door closed, you turned back to Din and properly assessed the situation.

Your eyes weren't deceiving you. There was still a blade lodged inside his flesh, and he didn't seem worried about it whatsoever—despite how much crimson you saw staining his flight suit. "Shit, Din." You fussed as you practically ran around your flat in search of your medpac. "Shit."

Din huffed. "Don't you want to know how it happened?"

You fixed him with a look across the room. "You can tell me while we're fixing it."

Din hummed as you approached with the medpac. You eased him into the nearest chair and set the supplies on the table. "I'm gonna need a better distraction than that."

Your furrowed your brow, but didn't step preparing everything you would need to assist him. "What do you mean?"

Your stare remained on your hands as they sorted through the supplies in record time, but you were forced to stop when Din set his gloved hand over them. You looked back up at his visor, watching as he nodded towards the hilt of the blade. "I need you to take this out for me."

Your throat tightened with panic, but you spoke around it. "You... don't want to do that yourself?"

"I can't. It'll be too painful." Din tilted his helmet at you. "Haven't you done this before?"

Your voice was so strained that it was just a squeal. "No!"

Din's hand tightened around yours. "Listen. It's gonna be just fine. Once it's out, the pain will be more than manageable."

He took one of your hands and guided it to the hilt. Your racing heart plunged into your stomach, threatening to make you sick as you instead swallowed hard and focused on Din rather than yourself.

"I only need you to do two things for me. Okay?"

You nodded, more than happy to let Din's soothing voice guide you. It came as no surprise to you that he was the calmer one in this situation, despite the fact he was also the one with the weapon in his shoulder.

"You need to pull this out, and you need to distract me while you do it."

Your gaze searched his visor. "What kind of distraction do you need me to do?"

You instinctively tightened your grasp on the hilt, causing a tight groan to slip through Din's modulator that had clearly caught him by surprise. His next words were curt, but not angered. "Do something. Anything."

You nodded and gently adjusted your grasp. You thought through all your options, looking upon Din for something that you could use to distract him. If talking wouldn't be enough, then there had to be something more powerful.

Your gaze caught on the lip of his helmet. It would be a risky move, but with the fogginess of your panic for him blinding you, you didn't bother to consider the consequences. All you cared about was blinding his pain.

The first move you made was straddling him on the chair, which Din clearly didn't mind, based on the quick way he secured you there. Then, with the hand not clutching the weapon in his shoulder, you lifted his helmet just enough to press your parted lips against his.

It was sweet relief, an acknowledgement shared in the sighs between you, and for a moment it made you forget why you had done it. But the weight of the hilt in your hand still remained, even if the warmth of Din's mouth was a strong distraction.

You were right to make this choice. If he was enough to distract you, then you were no doubt more than enough to distract him.

Your hand on his jaw, which still balanced the metal rim of his helmet, tilted his head back further to deepen the kiss. The moment you pushed your tongue into his mouth, you tugged hard on the blade, freeing it from his shoulder.

Din released his groan into you, his teeth capturing your lip as he did so, but he never broke away from you. Instead, after a few heavy breaths, he simply returned the favor by exploring your mouth with a passion that left you breathless.

But again, the weight of the blade in your hand was too heavy to ignore.

You forced yourself to pull away from him, your brow shooting up as you did so. "That's enough of the distraction, Din." You showed him the blade in your hand. "It's out. We need to fix it now."

Din's gloved hand wrapped around the back of your neck. "It's fine. I can survive for a few more minutes."

When he made the move to kiss you again, you stopped him by setting your thumb over his lips. "Din." Your eyes were at least double their usual size. "You're bleeding out."

Din paused, his hand only leaving your neck to take the lip of his helmet from you. He removed it from his head completely, leaving you to gape in an entirely different way than you had before. His brow rose as his brown gaze burned at you with the same flame of desire that you had lit deep within yourself.

If the sound of Din's natural voice wasn't enough to make you melt on top of him, then the words he spoke certainly were. "Does it look like I give a fuck?"

You yet again blinked at him in surprise, unable to do anything except let the blade clatter to the floor as you willingly went back to him again. You kissed him like your lives depended on it, because—in a way—Din's did. And that's the way he wanted it.

He had just proven that you were more tempting to him than life itself, and that's what made it impossible to put an end to this "distraction."

#ohhhh din djarin the man that you are THE MAN THAT YOU ARE!!!#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fic #prompts #dindjarindiaries

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whimsyvixen · 4 months ago

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𝕊𝕚𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕌𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 ~ 𝟙/?

Stalker Fic (original work)

Rating: 18+ Pairing: Female Reader x Male Yandere Synopsis/Excerpt: It felt like someone was looking at you. A predator looking at a fawn. Waiting for the right moment to sink its powerful jaws into its frail neck, and tear it apart. WARNINGS/TAGS: Dark fic, rape/noncon elements, extremely dubious consent, stalking, yandere, unhealthy relationships, obsessive behavior, masturbation, captivity, non-consensual bondage, dacryphilia, forced breeding, forced orgasm, vaginal sex, fuck or die, tags will grow as this story progresses. ⚠️READ THE TAGS: Please be aware this work contains content that the reader may feel uncomfortable with or otherwise triggered by. DO NOT READ if bothered by tags . NO minors. ⚠️

A/N: Wooo! so I finally decided to make story for this post I made awhile back (a thousand thank you's to everyone who liked and commented <3 ). Please read up on the tags, so you know what to expect in the coming chapters. Happy reading!

-Dividers by @adornedwithlight-

It was raining outside, the distant thunder and pitter patter of raindrops hitting the window creating a lullaby that was lulling you to sleep. Combined with the soft rumbling of the bus, you could feel your body’s desperate need for rest after a grueling shift at work.

Familiar streets and roads were tracked by your eyes, the expected relief of almost getting home brightening up your mood despite the gloomy weather. You estimated that you'll reach your destination in less than half an hour, rummaging through your purse to take out your phone to set up a timer in case sleep overtakes you and you miss your stop.

Pressing the lever of your seat to recline, you got comfortable and laid your cardigan over your chest, finally giving in to the urge of closing your eyes. Seconds ticked by and all you could think about was how you couldn't wait to be in the comfort of the soft bedding on your mattress. Your muscles were practically begging for relief and you had enough pillows and blankets waiting for you back home to alleviate this problem.

It couldn't have been more than a few minutes that passed– your mind completely disassociating from reality while you snoozed– when your peace was shattered. A shiver of unease ran through you, waking up your consciousness abruptly and causing you to jolt awake.

The same feeling that’s been haunting you for weeks now was back.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood and your heart rate picked up.

It hadn’t always been like this. You could still remember a time when you climbed inside the vehicle without your gut twisting anxiously. At first, you chalked it up to it being caused by some low level of anxiety you were experiencing or lack of restful sleep. Something that could be easily remedied by swallowing a pill stashed inside a drawer back home.

However, as of late, a feeling of wariness and fear seemed to consume you, your fight or flight response triggered whenever you climbed up the stairs of the bus, each step weighing heavy on your legs as you went to take your seat.

It felt like someone was looking at you.

A predator looking at a fawn.

Waiting for the right moment to sink its powerful jaws into its frail neck, and tear it apart.

The paranoia getting to you, you turned your head to the right, swallowing down your nervousness as you tried to find the source of your panic.

There was a man seated in the opposite seats across from you. His stretched out and bulky frame took up much of the space, the black cap on his head and the mask he wore obscuring his features and giving him a mysterious vibe. The turtleneck shirt clung to him, emphasizing the broad muscles of his upper body even in his relaxed state. His back was to the window, his left leg bent in a careless fashion along both seats, facing you directly as he was browsing through his phone.

At least, you thought that's what he was doing. You didn't want to believe that the man was taking unwanted pictures or videos of you while you slept.

You didn't realize you were staring for too long, the stranger’s attention shifting away from his phone when he could feel your gaze, freezing you in place as your eyes connected with those dark depths. For some reason, you couldn’t look away, too afraid to blink as a chill took over you from being under the perusal of those piercing eyes. There was something wrong, you just couldn’t explain it. He tilted his head to the side, regarding your stunned state for a moment before his eyes crinkled with amusement. He waved good naturedly at you, a normal gesture of greeting that you would've returned if not for the twisting of your gut that warned you against doing such a thing.

When you didn’t return his gesture, the stranger’s eyebrows furrowed in dejection, bringing his hand down to lay against his lap almost disappointedly.

A good few seconds passed with both unwilling to look away from each other.

Your eyes, firm and guarded while his were inquisitive and curious.

As if finally sensing your unease, the stranger backed off by turning to sit properly in his seat and shifting his focus back to his phone.

Letting out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, you grabbed your purse and whipped out your phone, your shaky hands nearly dropping it when you first grabbed it. Turning the screen on, you realized you had taken a ten minute nap with seconds to spare from your alarm ringing. You were mere minutes away from arriving at your stop.

Taking a quick glance at the stranger once more, you tried to rid your paranoid thoughts that he was the reason for your being on edge these past few weeks. It couldn’t be, you tried reasoning to yourself. If anything, you were in the wrong for staring at him funny when you’ve never seen him before. Maybe this was his first ride on the bus and you made his experience weird because you kept looking at him as if accusing him of something heinous. Maybe he was just trying to be friendly and not spook you when you caught each other’s eye by accident. Maybe your groggy mind was making things up about a complete stranger.

Could the stress of work and your responsibilities piling up for the past few months be messing with your awareness? There was nothing special about you. You weren’t an important person. There was nothing, no gifted ability or priviledge, that separated you from the throngs of people you saw every day while heading to work. Why would someone want you with your bleak existence and no future aspirations?

Your anxiousness and worry slowly left you when you drew those conclusions about yourself, replaced with self pity as you realized you really had nothing going for your life. The somber expression staring back at you through your phone’s black screen only dimming your mood further.

It was a while before the bus slowed to a stop, the driver’s familiar voice announcing your destination and making you stand to walk to the front. Not paying attention to your footing, you tripped over your own feet and felt gravity pull you under. A small yip tumbled out of your lips, feeling pain on your left elbow from the hard impact on the floor. Your purse went flying in a comical fashion, your disoriented mind not sure in which direction it landed or if anything fell out of it.

Embarrassment quickly flooded you, feeling the eyes of other passengers stare at you and hearing a few snickers amongst them. Wincing from the blossoming pain in your arm, you had barely braced your hands on the floor ready to stand up, when you felt warm hands encircle your waist.

“Here,” a deep voice whispered against your ear. “Let me help you, sweetheart.”

You were lifted from the floor easily, your weight meaning nothing to the man as he held you gently until you got your bearings straight. You looked up at him, having to crane your neck upwards due to his tall height and seeing it was the masked stranger.

“I, uhm.. Thank you,” you stuttered over your words, a flush of heat blooming in your face at his proximity. You wanted to kick yourself for how high pitched your voice sounded, unable to maintain eye contact with him when he gazed so intently back at you. If you dared to say, it felt like he was trying to memorize every small detail about your face– birthmarks, the slope of your nose, shape of your lips, the emotion in your eyes. Realizing that you still held on to his arms wrapped around your waist, you nervously laughed before going to break yourself away from the intimate embrace.

“I’m okay now, you can let go,” you assured him, the fake smile plastered on your face concealing your tense disposition from his closeness.

You chose to ignore the way his fingers dug momentarily into your waist, gripping you a little too tight to be normal before he loosened his grasp, allowing you to generate a more respectable distance between you and him. Seeing your startled reaction to his handling of you, the stranger immediately apologized for his actions.

“You’ll have to forgive me for my forwardness.” He told you, imploring you with his eyes that he meant no harm. He bent down to pick up something on the floor, his other hand holding up the strap of your purse for you to take it. “I only wanted to make sure you wouldn’t trip over yourself again.”

“Oh! I-It’s ok really, I-,” your words were interrupted by the harsh voice of the driver telling you to hurry to the front if you planned to get out. You quickly snatched your purse back, ignoring the little jolt of electricity that zipped through you when you grazed his fingers. “Um, I have to go but thank you, again! Bye!”

You turned to walk briskly down the steps of the bus, thanking the bus driver for his patience and stepping out into the familiar streets of your neighborhood. Luckily for you, the rain had slowed to a soft drizzle, an umbrella not needed for the small trek you took to arrive at the apartment where you’ve been renting for the past year.

Locking the door behind you, you sighed audibly before throwing your purse at the chair nearest you. You walked over to your room, kicking off your shoes to land haphazardly along the floor because you were too tired to bother putting them away. Removing your damp clothing, you grabbed a towel and some night clothes to head to the shower.

Relaxing under the spray of lukewarm water, you found your mind straying to the stranger in the bus.

Who was he?

You weren’t lying that you had never seen him before. A man of his formidable size would have been easy to spot, sticking out from the rest of the passengers like a sore thumb. He was dressed peculiarly too, his attire giving off the impression that he values secrecy and privacy. And his voice! Goodness, you could feel yourself nearly melt remembering the richness of it. The way he held you like a dainty object didn’t escape your notice either, your cheeks aflame at how good his hands felt around your waist. The feminine thrill that his presence ignited was hard to subdue, unbidden thoughts of his hands squeezing and trailing over your naked body filling your mind.

Would his hands be soft and gentle? Or would they be strong and rough?

As if your hands had a mind of their own, they moved up your body to cup your breasts making you gasp at the contact. You looked down at your chest, seeing the peaks of your nipples hardening under your soft touch. You tried envisioning his hands squeezing the doughy flesh, your head tilting to one side as you wondered if he'd be satisfied with your size. Small moans escaped you as you continued to fondle yourself, closing your eyes and imagining him whispering sweet nothings into your ear while he teased your breasts. You were sure he’d trail a line of kisses down your neck, pressing his naked front against you so you could feel his excitement poking at the small of your back. A sudden hard pinch to your nipple brought you out of your fantasy, the thought of his cock causing your fingers to twist the sensitive tip excitedly.

You shook your head under the shower, trying to calm your racing thoughts before they got more explicit.

To think such things about a man you hardly knew wasn’t good. What if you see him again tomorrow? Could you bear to look at him knowing where your thoughts were straying at this moment?

You winced, memories of the loaded eye contact you threw his way making you want to smack yourself. Maybe you should apologize next time you see him. To prove to him that you weren’t a crazy lady that regularly gave the stink eye to neighboring passengers. Explain that your stress was getting to you. Perhaps be the first to wave at him next time to show there was no animosity between you. Maybe something could develop once you introduced each other, a giddy little voice tickled your ears.

Once you were done showering and drying your hair, you went back to the living room for your purse. You had placed your phone inside so the rain couldn’t wet it. You needed to wake up at a good time tomorrow to get ready for work so setting up an alarm was crucial. When you grabbed your purse, you noticed it felt lighter and looked down to see it was unzipped and wide open.

Oh No. There’s no way…

You dug your hand inside, hoping to feel the familiar mass of your phone only to come out empty handed. Then you remembered your fall from earlier.

“Damn it, it must have fallen off when I fell,” you cursed under your breath, gnawing on your fingernail in worry for a minute before sighing tiredly. You needed to sleep and staying up late thinking about your lost phone was not going to help. You’d have to wait until tomorrow morning to ask the driver if anything was found.

Turning off all the lights in your place, you finally headed to bed, a yawn leaving your mouth as you placed a knee in your mattress. Under the covers of your blanket, you tried clearing up your mind so you could sleep quickly. A sudden image of the masked stranger flashed through your head, your growing curiosity of him affecting you even in your most tired state.

Right before you slept, a nagging at the back of your mind told you to be wary of him.

A man lay on his bed alone, hair plastered to his forehead as he breathed harshly. His shirt was raised to his waist, exposing his naked pelvis and muscled thighs as he pumped his rigid dick at a furious tempo.

His choked groans and huffs were muffled by his mask, the man tilting his head back on his pillows to bask in the pleasurable sensations of his hand firmly stroking his length. Perspiration ran down every inch of him, the sweat dampening his bed and making him grunt at how his sheets clung to his heated skin. He slid his hand down his shaft– tightening his grip when he got to the base– hissing when it caused his cock to twitch before sliding it up once more to tease his cockhead and repeat the process. The squelch of the lubricant coating his dick was a decadent symphony next to his pleasured grunts, the aggressive handling of his pleasure nearly causing him to erupt as he continued to fuck his fist.

He was nearly there, half lidded eyes eyeing the drop of precum threatening to slide down his shaft and mix with the lubricant.

No, he didn’t want to cum so soon. Not without the image of the pretty bird he’d been stalking for the past month etched in his brain. God, she was so beautiful. Never had he seen a more perfect woman than you. His hands tightened remembering how soft and demure you were when he picked you up. The slight tremble in your body and your skittish behavior making him want to devour you where you stood.

Biting his lip, he slowed his pace and closed his eyes in concentration, conjuring up an image that would help to reach his climax.

In his mind, it was no longer his hand wrapped around his dick.

Instead, smaller hands were slowly stroking him in an almost reverent manner, seeming to worship every protruding vein and jerk of his member. A small gasp escaped you when cum drizzled out of his tip, smearing your fingers with the warm liquid to combine with the lube drenching his dick. He could feel the stickiness of it running down his thighs and balls, causing him to shudder at the sensation.

He could see you biting your lip anxiously, staring at him with those expressive eyes of yours waiting for his instruction. Unable to resist, he'd grab your hair and yank you his throbbing cock, your flushed face gasping at the heat emitting from his rod of meat pressed against your cheek. He hoped you were a smart girl, knowing what he desired from you as he slapped his dick on your lips.

He'd stare you down, arching an eyebrow as he waited for you to open that sweet mouth of yours. He knew he wasn't a small man–his girth was enough to intimidate even his most experienced past partners– but he was sure he could teach you how to swallow him down like a good girl.

You'd hesitate for too long, testing his patience. He’d need to be firm with you then. He'd pinch your nose between his fingers, blocking your airways and driving you to open your mouth to take a breath. It was all he needed to shove half of his cock inside your heated orifice. A guttural groan would echo in his room, the warmth of the hot cavern of your mouth and wiggling tongue on the underside of his dick making him see white for a second.

He could picture your muffled whimpering, your hands bracing against his thighs to pull away. He'd lift his upper body to get a better grip on your head, not allowing you to escape and forcing more of his dick down your throat. He'd praise you for being so good and lovely for him. Telling you to relax your throat, to make it easier for you. Before long, you'd obey his commands and start bobbing your head slowly to adjust to the fullness in your mouth.

He'd allow you to work at your own pace, content with seeing your tear ridden face for a few minutes more before taking over when you were going too slow for his liking. Your eyes would widen with alarm when he thrusted his hips up, a gargled whine vibrating through his manhood from the fierce jab in your throat. He’d repeat the same action again, a pleased groan rumbling out of him at the feel of your mouth struggling to accommodate him. From there on, he'd use you like a fleshlight, gripping your hair tightly to pull your face down to every one of his savage thrusts. Spittle and cum would rain down your jaw, messing your appearance as you gagged and moaned around the dick hammering your throat.

It was the fantasy of seeing you look up at him, eyes pinched with distress and tears streaming down your heated and sweaty face, that made him finally snap.

His hips jerked up in his hand, his body vibrating violently just as his cock shot out endless ropes of cum in the air. He grunted with each twitch of his pelvis, feeling the warm liquid pooling in the crevices of his contracting abs and staining his shirt. His chest heaved with exertion, the stranger breathing heavily as a result of cumming from his heightened lust. His mask hid his delirious smile, the stranger chuckling to himself at the euphoria he felt and the mess he created.

Only you could make him cum so strongly to drive him to lose himself.

Minutes passed until he was able to get his breathing under control, begrudgingly getting out of his bed to clean himself up.

Something about you had him hooked. What started off as a fleeting crush morphed into a distorted and unhealthy obsession, the stranger falling deeper in love with you every passing day, as well as the urge to take you growing exponentially worse. .

He longed to know what it felt like to have you in his arms, the thought keeping him up often at night.

Luckily for him, his wish finally came true tonight, remembering the softness of your body in his hands. You were a small little thing compared to him, barely reaching his chest. It wouldn't take much to overpower you, the statement giving rise to depraved thoughts of your squirming body underneath him, naked and helpless under his ardent touch. It took everything in him not to pull you closer, wanting to feel your delicious shape against his frame as the fantasy played in his head. He hated his mask at that moment, realizing he could've caught a whiff of your scent too if he wasn't keen on hiding his identity.

The stranger's eyes furrowed in displeasure at this, angry at himself for missing an opportunity to know you more intimately. Turning off the sink, he didn't bother to dry his hands when he ripped his mask off and flung it in the trash.

In a foul mood, he exited his bathroom and marched towards his study. It was already past midnight but there was something important he had to do before he slept.

Entering the room, he didn't bother to close the door and sat down, sliding the chair closer to his desk to get to work. He was inputting his PC’s password when he glanced at the rectangular object next to him.

It was your phone.

He inspected it, taking note of your phone cover and thinking it suited someone like you. He pressed the on button, seeing your phone screen light up and ask for the passcode to access it. He typed in a few guesses and not to his surprise, none worked.

No worries. This would only be a momentary issue. Nothing that he couldn't crack open once he plugged your device to his computer. Sure enough, within a few moments, all your browsing history and personal information was revealed to him. His eyes traveled greedily over all your files, desperate to know who you were and what you liked.

His impatience to claim you was nearing a tipping point. He already had a small taste of you and it was not enough. HIs hands clenched into fists. He wanted more. Desired to thoroughly possess you and infect you with his love.

One way or another, you were going to be his.

He would make sure of it.

#yandere #yandere male #obsessive yandere #stalker bf #cnc stalking #yandere male x reader #dark smut #dark content #darkfic #tw noncon #tw dubcon #tw yandere #dark imagines #yandere oc

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aliteralsemicolon · 5 months ago

Text

I'll wait for your love - 18+

See part 1 | See Part 2 | Part 3 of We can't be friends (wait for your love)

The only thing you’re sure of is that you don’t want things to go back to the way they were and Spencer agrees that change may be for the best.

Spencer Reid X Fem! Reader

DISCLAIMER This story is NSFW and contains graphic depictions + detailed descriptions of adult content. It is intended for mature audiences only, minors do not interact! You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read.

WARNINGS: Panic attack mentioned, slight PTSD depictions, case details (barely) mentioned, alcohol mentioned like once. Smut (not the focus at all): making out, nipple play, clitoral stimulation, praise, use of pet names (angel, pretty girl, etc). Proceed at your own risk.

Word count: 10.4K See notes at end for authors note & spoilers.

Avoiding Spencer wasn’t overly difficult on the flight back to D.C. You weren’t entirely sure how to face him after he risked his life for you, so you just pretended to be asleep the whole time. You even took a separate jeep from the tarmac to avoid a car ride back with him, and almost made a clean getaway to your car in the parking lot when Hotch stopped you.

“I’m sorry to hold you back, but I do need the Anchorage report on my desk before tomorrow morning. It can’t be put off any longer.”

He looked extremely apologetic and you understood. You’re grateful he gave you as much time as he has. That’s how you ended up stuck at work til the later hours of the evening. Besides the few workaholics, security guards and janitors roaming around the corridors, the only other person there with you is Spencer, oddly. Even Hotch has gone home. You’ve spent more time stalking the doctor work through the pile of case files on his desk than you have writing in the one on yours. Only when you're caught do you look away.

“Everything okay?” The innocent curiosity in his big eyes further reddens the hot embarrassment in your cheeks.

“Fine.” You mutter, dipping your head back down to the open page.

You’re never going to get this damn file done if you can’t get him out of your head, and him being barely three feet away from you doesn’t help. It’s very difficult for you to get your words from pen to paper. Anchorage wasn’t haunting you like it did at first. It was a traumatic event, yes, but alone isn’t the cause of this…block. Obviously the reality that you’re leaving is starting to dawn on you. Somehow your mind has linked this case with your departure and finishing this report makes it more official than your actual resignation.

Plus, as much as you definitely hate Spencer, you do did care for him. The shock of him almost getting himself killed in front of you is another thing occupying your mind. It’s barely been twenty four hours since then, it’s still fresh. You can see him stand and grab his satchel in your peripheral vision, he’s preparing to leave. There are a lot of memories attached to that brown leather bag.

Things he would carry in there for you when you forgot your own bag.

You don’t make it obvious that you’re watching him gather his things in small glances.

He bought extra hair clips for you to keep in there because you would often forget those too.

It’s over now. No point in dwelling on it. You shake your head once he’s out of sight, trying to force him out of your thoughts. Now that he’s gone you’re hoping to actually be able to get some work done.

He taught you chess with the mini chess set he keeps in there. You discovered that you actually quite liked chess and would ask to play with him all the time. It was also his ‘secret’ weapon to help you calm down.

You roll your eyes to push back the tears from the memories that refuse to stop playing. This can wait until you get home, it’s not important.

It wasn’t the chess set that helped you feel calm. Spencer could win chess against you in just a few moves, but he would deliberately stretch out the game so you could have room to breathe. The longer the game, the more time you had to spend focused on the moves and slow down your thoughts. You could open up at your own pace. He would let you feel in control.

It doesn’t matter if he’s near you or not, Spencer has a way of invading your headspace wherever he is. Your train of thoughts is interrupted with a light thud on your right. You covertly roll the tears away again and turn to examine the source of the noise. A mug of coffee placed on your desk by

“Spencer?” You sputter breathlessly.

“Sorry. I know you told me to stop. This is the last time I promise.”

You don’t fully comprehend what he’s going on about, not expecting him to be here at all.

“I thought you left.”

“I did– was. I was leaving, but I thought I’d make you some coffee before I go. Since you’ve been here a while.” He awkwardly explains.

You steadily direct your attention back to the mug, reeling in what was happening.

“Before you get mad, this really is just a cup of coffee from a colleague who thought it might help keep you energised if you’re planning to stay late. There’s no ulterior motive…”

He continues rambling but you’re not mentally present to hear any of it.

He made you coffee.

Even though you’ve been nothing short of an absolute bitch. Granted he was a bitch first, but the point is that he’s still thinking of your well being regardless. You can’t hide your tears from him this time. It’s the soft buzz of your name that draws you back to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you! I’ll take the coffee–”

His panicked sentiment is cut short when you jump out of your seat and shove past him. The breakdown you’ve been avoiding hits you like a ton of bricks. You run into the nearest empty office and he runs after you, making it past the door before you can lock him out.

“Spencer p–please get out! I’m fine.” You’re pacing in the same spot, fanning away the stream falling down your cheeks, hyperventilating.

He doesn’t respond to you, instead cautiously taking your hand in his. You’re in too frenzied a state to care. He guides you to sit on the couch against the wall and you blindly go along with it, still trying to get yourself together.

You want to stop the tears, but you can’t do that until you get your breathing under control. He slowly wraps his arms around you and you slump into him, head buried in his chest. You should try to fight it, you should push him away, but you can’t. Right now, surrounded by his scent, held in his arms, you don’t want to move. It’s not something you can properly explain, but the feeling is so comforting that nothing else matters. All you know is that you’re safe and that’s enough for you to allow yourself to finally break down.

The first few sobs are loud, like there’s not enough air in the world to stabilise your lungs. They fizzle out into silent whimpers and you grasp onto the fabric of his sweater, balling it in your fist, just letting yourself feel. Spencer still hasn’t said a word. His right hand is rubbing circles on your back and his left hand is gently scratching just above the nape of your neck.

You stay like that for a while, even after you’ve stopped crying. It’s been so long since you’ve been in this little bubble with him and you don’t want it to end. You pull away when you feel the strap of his satchel across his stomach as your hand drops to his lap. He visually follows every move you make.

“You’re still wearing your bag.” You sniffle, leaning back.

“I am.” He whispers, understanding that you no longer want to be touched.

He stays in his original position; facing you, but now with one arm resting on top of the backrest and the other idly in his lap. You’ve moved so that now you're facing ahead with your back leaning against the cushions, pulling your knees into your chest. You had never found comfort in silence until the first time you experienced it with Spencer. Staying huddled, you divert your eyes towards him. There’s a distinct wet patch on his shirt. It’s less visible on his sweater-vest, but it’s there.

“Your shirt’s wet now.” It’s almost impossible to make out what you’re saying with your mouth muffled against your arm, but of course, Spencer manages anyway.

“It’ll dry.” He smiles, tone delicate.

“But– germs.” You choke a little due to your previous crying.

“It can be washed.” He’s using his comforting voice again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

The silence resumes. Neither of you dares to move, trying to freeze this moment. It’s obvious that you didn’t grasp how badly you craved each other’s presence.

“D–do…” The initial sound grabs Spencer’s full attention again. You take a deep breath, hoping he wants to stay here as much as you do. “Do you still carry that little chess set with you?”

A small, airy chuckle comes out from him.

“Would you like to play?”

“Please.”

He creates some more space between you and begins to set up the board once he’s pulled it out of his satchel. You move to accommodate the set up, now facing him with your legs crossed on the couch and shoes abandoned on the floor. You wait for him to make the first move. After the opening moves the game doesn’t seem to get any harder and you know he’s throwing the game. You’re okay at chess, but he’s obviously a lot better.

“You’re going easy on me.” You mumble.

“Because you’re not even trying.” He replies blithely.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Like I said, you’re making it too easy.” He gently teases.

“Not that. Helping me. You hate me, remember?” You say it like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

“I don’t hate you.”

“You literally told me that you hate me.” You chuckle, numb to the hurt that sentence once brought you.

“So did you.” He counters in defence, trailing your hand as it carelessly moves your queen to her demise.

“I was angry.”

“So was I.” He spared your queen, in turn leaving his king vulnerable.

“It doesn’t matter now…” You don’t finish the rest of your sentence but Spencer still hears it.

You’re leaving soon anyway.

“It matters to me.” If he left something unsaid you choose to ignore it.

“You’re letting me win.” You whisper, feeling the urge to cry some more, but there’s no tears left.

He doesn’t make a move, bringing the game to a halt. He’s waiting for you to meet his eyes. You know what he’s going to say.

“Spencer, don't.” You beseech.

“Why?” If you looked at him instead of the board you’d see the way his eyes are pleading at you.

“There’s no point.” This time it’s your voice that cracks.

You're looking everywhere else and it makes you too aware of your surroundings. Like how the couch is lined up directly under a window that anyone could peek into.

“Leaving is not the only option.” He solicits.

He regards your discomfort and closes the blinds from where he’s sitting, pulling you back into the privacy of your bubble.

“There’s nothing that you can say to make things go back to how they were.” You bite the inside of your cheek, fiddling with a random pawn.

It’s not a proper two way conversation. You’re talking to yourself just as much as Spencer’s talking to you. You’re both trying to convince you of what you’re saying.

“Things don’t have to go back to how they were.” The squeaks in his soothing tone are starting to melt any resolve you have left.

“There’s no reason for me to stay.” You oppose, trying to make any argument stick.

“I can think of more reasons for you to stay than for you to go.”

There’s an underlying tension bubbling. Neither of you notice it over your desperate tug of war.

“I don’t think there’s anything that you can say to get me to stay.” Another baseless sentence meant more for you than for him.

“Give me one chance. One chance to convince you.” He can see your internal struggle at his request and he throws out one final plea to sway you. “For nothing more than closure.”

Closure.

You’ve spent months in turmoil over the hows and the what ifs, trying to conjure answers to questions that wouldn’t stop pestering you. You couldn’t turn him down even if you wanted to.

“Closure?” You repeat, eyes finally latching onto his.

“Closure.” He whispers back in reassurance.

“Even if you can’t convince me?” You caution, not wanting to give him false hope.

He doesn’t say anything, thinking over the scenario in his head. He simply nods and you mimic the action, blinking away the blur in your vision and dragging around chess pieces. It takes Spencer a second to figure out that you were moving them back to their default places.

“Okay new game.” You announce.

Spencer blinks in confusion, waiting for you to elaborate.

“I can ask you any question I want and you have to answer honestly. If by the end of the game I’m not convinced to stay, you back off for the remainder of my time here.” You pause for him to interject, but he doesn’t. “That means we stay away from each other, only talking when needed for work. Even then as cordially and professionally as possible. No more trying to make casual conversation or bringing me coffee or anything like that.”

“Till the end of the game?” He studies you.

“Yup.” You smack your lips together. “Til one of us checkmates the other.”

“This means you’ll actually give me a fair shot?”

“Between the two of us, I’m not the one known for cheating at games.” You jab, trying to ease the tension you could definitely feel now.

“I meant a fair shot at convincing you. As in you’ll seriously take what I have to say into account.” He discards your attempt.

“No, I know. The opportunity was just too good to pass up.”

He can tell you’re trying to hold back a laugh from the small smile on your lips. It’s as adorable to him now as it was the first time he saw it.

“Any rules before we start?” He asks, unable to hide his own smile.

“Only that we have to be honest.” You answer, immediately dropping your smile.

“Okay.” He agrees, smiling slightly wider.

“Okay.” You nod again.

When he finally makes the first move it hits you that you don’t actually know where to start. Theoretically, you know what you want to ask, but don’t know how to ask. You don’t know if you should jump straight into the questions or start with some ice breakers. Nothing is said for about four to five moves when Spencer pauses the game.

“Are you going to ask any questions or have you decided that you just want to play one last game for your closure?”

“Huh?” You snap your vision away from the board. “Oh, sorry. I was thinking.”

“Do you want to return to the game after thinking of a few questions to ask?” He raises his brow and relaxes his jaw.

“No, no, we don’t need to do that. Let’s keep playing, the questions will come to me.” You brush off his suggestion and motion for him to continue with his turn. He doesn’t.

“What?” Your voice raises and you scrunch your nose from perplexity.

“Sorry, it’s just that you’ve put us on a time limit and this is how you’re using our time?” He airs, failing to conceal his amusement.

“Well excuse me if I don’t exactly have a list of questions ready to go for you.” You narrow your eyes in annoyance.

“Why would you suggest this if you don’t have any questions?” He tries to hold back his laugh and ends up snorting as a result.

“I have questions!” You jabber, unable to maintain your annoyance. “I don’t know what– where do I even start?”

“Start with whichever one comes to you first.” He shrugs, finally making his move.

A lot of things come to mind when you think about it. The thing that screams the loudest twitches a nerve and you become instantly irate.

“Okay.” You nod, tone harsh and flat. “Let’s start with whatever the fuck possessed you on the last case. What was your thought process when you put your life in danger like that?”

He almost gets whiplash from the change in mood, his face literally reads ‘are you serious?’.

“He was going to shoot you.” He states like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I was wearing a vest, I would’ve been fine.” You contend.

“I wasn’t willing to take that risk.”

“Risk?! You literally put yourself in danger for no reason!”

“I think it was a pretty good reason actually!”

“Spencer that was–” You stop yourself with a grumble, inhaling deeply.

“It was instinctual, okay?” He softly explains. “I saw him aim the gun at you and I just reacted.”

“Well it was a stupid reaction!” You whine.

“I’m not going to apologise for it.”

The glare you give is piercing, you bite the inside of your cheek to hold your tongue before you say something you can’t take back. Spencer throws his head back and sighs.

“But I will promise not to do it again.” He adds, not fully intending to keep it.

This was slowly turning into another argument, both of you shooting back too fast with your responses. You aren’t in the mood for another argument. So you redirect your attention to the game.

“Check.” You mumble, buying yourself time to think of another question. “Why are you here so late anyway?”

“I wanted to finish some work before tomorrow morning.” He replies, moving his king to safety.

“Yeah, what’s up with that? You could’ve done those tomorrow as well.” Your voice softens out of curiosity.

“I wanted to get them finished in case there were more tomorrow.” It’s not his best excuse. You don’t know what he means by that. He doesn’t know what he means by that. He’s lying to you.

You scoff, poking your tongue against your cheek. “Wow. You really can’t not cheat during a game, can you?”

“Right, sorry.” Spencer clears his throat after the initial confusion clears. Complete honesty, it was your only rule. “I wanted to be here.”

“For…” You egg on, purposely rolling your ‘r’s to prompt him.

“I wanted to make sure that you were okay.” He admits, looking away from you.

“Why?” You’re genuinely puzzled at the admission. “You’re the one who almost died. I mean, it was stupid and your fault, but still. If anything I should be checking up on you.”

“Check.” That’s the only response he gives you. He hopes that you don’t push further, but he knows that you will.

His lack of response only forces you to think about the possible reasons by yourself, using context clues to figure it out. You are a profiler, after all.

“Is this because of the panic attack?” You note how his jaw twitches when he swallows at the mention. “It is! You seriously chose to spend your night stuck at the office because of that?”

“What else was I supposed to do? It’s not like you would talk to me, you literally refused to even look at me!” He gripes.

“Spencer I think anyone would panic if they got tackled to the ground by a six foot man without warning. I’m fine.” You giggle.

“What happened to complete honesty?” It’s his turn to glare at you.

“I am being honest!” You protest.

“Lying by omission is not being honest.” He rolls his eyes.

“Okay Mr. know-it-all, what am I lying about?” You challenge.

“Seriously? You don’t remember?” His approach is doubtful and he just stares at your dazed expression.

“Fucking spit it out already, Spence!”

Any sarcasm he had geared up for a response dissipates at your use of his nickname. He’s heard it plenty in the last few months, but not from you. For a moment things feel like they never changed. It stings in a bittersweet kind of way.

“You sc–screamed– uh–” He clears his throat and rapidly blinks, his nose twitches in the process. “During that panic attack, you repeatedly asked me to stay with you. Y–you, uh– you said you didn’t think you could li–”

“Stop. Stop. Stop talking.” Your voice quavers and you hold your hand up, ears burning up. “I don’t wanna know.”

You don’t know why it makes your heart race the way it does, you don’t even remember it. He waits a while before speaking up again, wanting to be careful about how he goes about the topic without you shutting down.

“May I ask you a question?” He voices professionally, trying to make the conversation less personal so you don’t feel cornered.

You nod, moving your king out of check.

“Is there anybody you will talk to about Anchorage? Without pushing them away?” He keeps the game going as he speaks to provide you with a distraction.

“Woah– Anchorage? Where is that coming from?” You titter.

“I want you to remember that we promised to be honest and I won’t push if you ask me to stop, but I know for a fact that you aren’t okay.” He waits for you to stop him but you don’t, even though you know roughly what he’s going to say. “Panic attacks aside, your avoidant behaviour around the topic, inability to focus, being easily startled, you’re showing signs of PTSD.”

“Spence, c’mon. I don’t need to talk to anyone. I already passed the psych evals.” You attempt to make light of the situation with carefully chosen words so you’re not lying. It was a futile attempt, you know he’s not willing to budge when he doesn’t give you anything more than a blank stare.

“Why does this matter so much to you?” You sigh in defeat. “Whatever happened…that’s a part of the job, you know that.”

“I also know, first hand, that it takes over your life. You can’t run from it, no matter how much you try to.” His tone is soft as he speaks, yet you feel like he’s accusing you.

“I am not running! Why would you say I’m running?” You object with a high voice, shrugging your shoulders. “And it’s not taking over my life. Also, check.”

“Because that’s what you do when you don’t want to deal with something.” He states point blank.

“Woah– so– that was entirely unnecessary.” You stammer, unable to deny it.

“I’m not criticising you. I just happen to know you and I know that you have a tendency to run from your problems. And it is taking over your life.”

“You’re profiling!” You gasp.

“You know that it’s not something we can just turn off! No matter how much we pretend like we can.” He waves his hands defensively.

You can’t argue with that, your lips twisting to the side.

“You want me to be honest?” You murmur sheepishly.

“Always. Please.” He responds gently, wanting you to be as comfortable as possible.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I spend a good chunk of my day actively avoiding thinking about it, but somehow I always end up thinking about it anyway. At times it’s like I can almost feel…” You breathe in instinctively. “This is the first time in months I’ve been able to do anything without it lingering in the back of my mind. Can we please talk about it another time? I would rather talk about other things…”

Another time.

“...right now.”

You’ve implied that there will be another time to talk and he definitely caught it, even if he pretends that he hasn’t. You don’t even know if what you said is true, you got too comfortable with the familiarity of his friendship. It was something you said out of habit from back when you two actually were friends. Not even a full hour's worth of conversation with him and he’s already worming his way back in.

“Um–” You drag yourself further back on the couch, creating more physical distance.

“That’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it at all.” Spencer senses your urgency to leave the situation and jumps into damage control. “It’s your turn.”

“No, um, I should– I should go. Thanks for doing thi– helping me.” You turn away from him, aiming for your shoes and ready to bolt.

“The game’s not over.” He points out.

“Yes it is.” You declare, still in the process of putting on your shoes.

“You said til checkmate.” He huffs, shifting out of his seated position.

“I forfeit!” You throw your arms out in a shrugging manner, standing up after him.

“I can’t believe this. You’re going back on your word!” He doesn’t even raise his voice. He’s just hurt.

“What’s the point, Spencer? Closure doesn’t mean anything, I’m still leaving! You can’t magically change my mind!” You yell, getting louder with each sentence.

“I disagree. I think that you’re running again!” He blocks your way and yells back, maintaining his volume throughout.

“Maybe you should think less!” You suggest, still yelling. Sarcasm is your defence mechanism when you have no actual defence.

“You know what else I think?” He continues, emphasising the word ‘think’ every time he says it out of spite. “I think that you agreed to this thinking I won’t be able to convince you, but I am!”

“I don’t care what you–”

“I think you don’t want to finish the game that you started, because you’re afraid to ask the harder questions!”

“Stop.” You command, but it doesn’t deter him.

“I think that you’re scared to hear my answers because then it all becomes too real for you–”

“Stop!” The words almost get stuck in your throat, but you choke them out. “You’re wrong.”

“If I’m wrong then prove it. To both of us.” He sits back down and motions to the board. “Ask the real questions.”

“I don’t need to prove anything, you’re wrong.” You uphold.

“So leave.” He challenges, knowing that you won’t be able to.

If you truly believed that he’s wrong you wouldn’t feel the need to prove it, but you do and he knows that. You walk back over to the couch, head nodding from irritation, tongue poking your cheek. You kick your shoes off with a bit of force and return to your earlier position across from him.

“Your move.” He reminds you as you settle in.

You don’t reply yet, but move your rook to set him up for the next move.

“Check.” He smugly states.

“Who was she?”

You don’t move, examining him close for any change in his behaviour. He obviously didn't anticipate that question first, snapping his sights back on you.

“Sorry?”

“The woman who greeted me at your door. That night at your apartment.”

“Charlotte.” He replies, holding your gaze to show you he’s got nothing to hide. “We met at the library a week before.”

“Are you guys together?” You break away first, diverting your eyes to the chess board and trying to seem unfazed when moving your knight.

“No, God, no.” He denies immediately.

“I don’t know, she seemed pretty cosy for someone you met a week prior.” You don’t mean to sound as snide as you come across.

“No, it wasn’t like that at all.” He shakes his head.

“You sure? Because I’m pretty sure I saw her mark you up with a kiss on your cheek before disappearing.” You don’t look at him, examining a captured pawn as you wait for him to make his move.

“Mark me up?” He cognizes it instantly. “Are you…jealous?”

“What? No!” You vehemently deny, your voice rising in several pitches.

“You are!” His eyes widen.

“I am not jealous.”

His jaw slacks and he lets out an amused scoff. He doesn’t say anything, making you feel the need to fill the silence.

“I only bring it up because…I know you have a thing with…germs.” Your words falter because of your own uncertainty and you want to dissolve into the fucking floor.

Spencer tries to suppress a smile by poking his tongue out slightly. If the atmosphere was lighter he’d tease you about it, but he doesn’t want to make you take off again. Still, he feels the need to clarify the events of the night.

“I don’t know why she kissed my cheek, it was completely random.” He takes his time saying it, still fighting a smile.

You swallow nervously and purse your lips to the side in response. One question answered and you only have new ones in its place. Did she stay the night? Did she sleep on the couch or on his bed? Did he see her again?

“I drove her home right after you left.” He can almost hear your thoughts.

“Was it a date?” You softly gulp again, unsure if you even have a right to know.

“Yes.” He hesitates.

“Oh.”

“I wanted to try out casual dating for once.” He chagrins. “I honestly don’t know how you did it, it’s not even fun.”

“No it’s not.” You chuckle dryly. “So no second date, I presume?”

“Definitely not. I was just stressed the whole time.” He chuckles with you.

“Take a shot of tequila before you go next time, it helps settle the nerves.” You joke, jumping to give him advice you hope he doesn’t take. You can’t help it, it’s what you’ve always done. Even if it goes against what you desire.

“While moderate consumption of tequila can help relax the nervous system, I will not be turning to alcohol for stress relief.”

“Then blast classical music while you get ready and give yourself a pep talk out loud, it’s actually really efficient–”

“There won’t be a next time. For a really long time, if ever.” He interjects, miffed at your insistence.

“You willingly plan on committing to lifelong celibacy?” You exclaim with a puzzled look. “Why?!”

Spencer laughs at how raw your reaction is. He didn’t plan on giving out any more details but, with that prompt he decides that it’s now or never.

“I don’t think any future dates will appreciate me picturing someone else in their place the whole time.”

Oh.

Both of you lock eyes at the same time. This is not a road you’re prepared to go back down, even if that’s literally the whole point of this conversation. You’re too stunned to reply and Spencer uses this as an opportunity to be elaborate. He doesn’t want any misunderstandings this time.

“I couldn’t stop pictur–”

“Shut up.” You blurt out the sentence in almost one word.

Your heart’s racing like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff. You’re flustered, every part of your body is heated from how terrified you are.

“Y–you don’t have t–t…you don’t owe m–me an explanation.” You try to elaborate, contradicting yourself and stumbling on your words.

“I want to.” He reads that you’re apprehensive but pushes regardless.

“Please don’t.” The tears that you thought had dried out were building again.

“Why ask if you won’t let me answer?”

You don’t have anything to say to that. Did you want answers? Yes. Still, you didn’t expect how hard they’d be to hear. He whispers your name and you scramble to think of your next move, and not in chess. You’re unable to even think about the game right now. You want to bolt, but you can’t even get yourself to move. So you deflect.

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

“I disagree.” Although his tone is subdued, the pace of his wording is faster. “I think it does matter and that’s why you’re afraid to hear it.”

He’s right but you can’t bring yourself to agree. This is only going to over-complicate an already complicated situation.

“It’s not enough.” Your voice cracks.

“How can it be if you won’t even give it a fair shot?”

“Fair?”

It comes out louder than you intended. His words trigger resentment within you and you snap.

“Nothing about any of this is fair! I mean, fucking hell, Spencer, four years. That’s how long we’ve been friends. I mean I’ve shared shit that I thought I would be taking to the fucking grave with you! You were my best friend for four fucking years and all it took was like, five seconds?”

You sob, softer than when you were first crying, but the frustration is clear. He reaches out to touch your hand, but you push his hand away.

“No!” You choke, sobbing harder when you try to compile your thoughts. “Five seconds to destroy all of it! It makes me wonder if everything we shared, our friendship, was it ever even that strong?”

Your anger simmers to sadness, as evident with how your yelling fades into whispering in the last sentence.

“I can’t even tell you when exactly those five seconds were. I mean, I know…but…I don’t. Where did it go wrong, Spence?”

“I don’t know.” Is all he can say after a beat of silence.

He knows exactly where it went wrong.

“Yeah, me neither!” You sniffle, immediately wiping a single tear that manages to escape. “So again, it doesn’t matter.”

“When you took it back.”

“What?”

“That’s where everything changed for me. You showed up at my apartment drunk, after your date with Nathan. Your exact words were ‘I mean as an amazing friend’.” His voice strains like he’s forcing himself to speak.

Your gaze falls, eyes darting everywhere as you try to jog your memory beyond the one sentence you remember.

“I don’t understand.” You croak.

“You know, if I wasn’t who I am, maybe you could love me the way I love you.” He chuckles bitterly, fighting back tears of his own. “That was– that was, uh, what you said before you took it back.”

“Spence, please…” You whine without sound, tilting your head back and chewing on your lip as a final attempt to stay composed.

“No, you wanted to know where it went wrong.” He laughs falsely to downplay his tears. “You can say it doesn’t matter all you want, but the fact is, it does matter. It matters to me and I won’t let you run from it anymore.”

You can’t look at him. Not with tears free falling down your face. You cup your hands together in your lap, pressing your fingers and nails together.

“You told me that I couldn’t love you.” You struggle to sound your words.

“I’m an idiot.” Another chuckle, but he sounds defeated. “When you said that, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to say that I do love you.”

You tearfully laugh at this admission.

“I only took it back because of what you said. I panicked. I thought I’d ruined things…which I guess, I still did.” Another laugh from you.

Spencer responds with the same regretful sound.

The irony spurs another fit of giggles amongst you, this one slightly longer and infinitely more rueful than the last. You look anywhere but at each other until it grows quieter.

“If you loved me, why the fuck would you tell me that I couldn’t love you?” You sound just as, if not more, defeated than him.

“Love.” Spencer corrects without missing a beat.

Your brows twitch up and your heart jumps.

“I was so hung up on every single part of your sentence that I didn’t know what to say first.” He proceeds to answer you without leaving much room to process what he said. “I wanted to tell you that I do love you. I love you as you are. Not as somebody else.”

“But you didn’t say any of that.” You ignore all his admissions, not fully comprehending.

“Like I said, I’m an idiot. I was in so much disbelief and that was the first thing that came out of my mouth.” He sullenly huffs.

You don’t reply, sniffling with your head down.

“For like a second, I had everything I wanted. Then you took it back and it was like my whole world had been ripped out from under me. In those five seconds, you’d given me a taste of what I’d spent four years convincing myself I couldn’t have and I just– I couldn’t go back after that.” He adds after a stillness.

After a short while, your focus shifts from your hands to the board in front of you. The game’s been long forgotten. You’re immersed in the conversation, in spite of how strenuous it is.

“I understand why you were distant, even mean, at first.” You snivel. “But after a while you just became downright cruel.”

Spencer doesn’t shy away from your gaze when you do look at him. His skin is as drenched from crying as yours is.

“I mean ‘I don’t want to see your face’? I know that I don’t really have a leg to stand on anymore, but, what the fuck Spencer?”

He doesn’t cringe any less with every reminder. He’s truly regretted the words since they left his mouth.

“I wanted to hurt you.” He reveals. “I thought you were being deliberately cruel and I wanted you to feel exactly how I was feeling.”

“Deliberately?”

He nods, hanging his head.

“I thought that you knew how I felt and were just trying to be funny or something.”

“Well I didn’t. I wasn’t.” You cut him off with a constricted voice.

“Even if you did, it’s not an excuse.” His eyes are glistening from the outpour of tears, but he still lifts his sights back to you. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t know how to acknowledge his apology at all. You’re not even angry anymore, all you feel is sorrow and regret for the way everything happened. An entire friendship down the drain due to an unfortunate set of circumstances.

“This is so fucked up.” You say with another mordant laugh. “All of this could have been avoided if we just talked about it.”

It stung less when you had somebody to blame for it. Your vision blurs and you make no effort to clear it, letting yourself cry openly.

“We’re talking about it now?” It’s almost a squeak, the way it’s spoken.

“Yeah, but,” your shoulders slump, defeatedly, and you have to pause to control your sob, “what good does it do now? I’ve already lost the best thing that’s ever happened to me in the most pathetic way possible.”

“I’m right here.” He counters in such a small voice that it gives your goosebumps.

“Spencer, too many things have been said…”

“When you first joined the team, I instantly knew I liked you.”

He chews on his lip and darts his eyes around while he contemplates if he wants to continue.

“I thought it was because of your kind nature. You were so sweet to everybody.” He decides he does, but his voice shakes throughout. “You have this gift…you make people feel so good about themselves. Whenever you spoke to me, I felt like the most important person in the world. It was impossible not to like you.”

You want to pretend like you don’t know where he’s going with this. You want to stop him, but your voice is stuck in your throat.

“It wasn’t until you bought me coffee for the first time that I realised just how much I liked you.” He chuckles again, as he reminisces in the memory. “You didn’t even get my order right until the fourth time, but it was still my favourite cup of the day.”

“You make me sound like a saint.” You finally choke out, attempting to play down the confession so it doesn’t crush your heart. “The only reason I even started bringing you coffee is because you learned how I like my coffee first.”

“Not a saint, an angel. I’ve fallen so deeply in love with you that there are times where it genuinely feels like I’m in the presence of an angel.”

It’s stated with such sincerity that it knocks the wind out of your pipes. Your eyes are widened and you’re biting your tongue with your mouth closed, staring at him with your chin tucked. He seems so confident, even with the glistening from previous tears in his eyes.

“I wanted to be in your life in any way you would have me. Even when it meant that I had to accept you with other people. And it was bearable, until…” His reminiscence only ends at the memory of the night that changed everything. “Like I said, I couldn’t go back.”

The last part fades into another whisper, only then do you find the courage to speak up.

“Exactly.” You stick to your denial. “It can’t go back to how it was before.”

Your heart is so sure of what it wants, but your head is blinded by fear. You’re at a crossroads, except one path, the path that leads to everything you long for, is clouded with a fog of uncertainty. The other path is so painfully clear, you can practically see what’s on the other side. A fresh start, where the risk of fucking up further doesn’t exist. What you don’t see is Spencer.

“Good. I don’t want it to go back to how it was.”

Spencer’s waiting for you to enter the fog. He’s going to be there holding your hand every step of the way.

“I’ve already handed in my resignation.”

“That matters less than everything you’ve claimed doesn’t matter.” He leans in, intensifying his eye contact.

“I’m pretty sure Hotch is really close to confirming my replacement.” You comment half-heartedly.

You’re trying anything to dissuade both him and yourself from acknowledging the obvious, but he doesn’t plan on letting you avoid it.

“I love you.” He whispers softly.

“Spencer…” You begin when he takes hold of your hands and whatever you had to say disappears from your tongue.

“I love you. With every atom that makes up my body.” He repeats himself with further elaboration to instil it in your mind.

“I’m scared.” You whisper back with a sob, finally accepting it.

“Why?” His voice can’t be any softer, but it still cracks a little.

“Because, you can’t guarantee that it’s going to end well.” You allow your vulnerability to peek through. “And that’s going to hurt more. I’d rather leave now than fall deeper.”

Although you didn’t say it back, it’s an indirect admission that you love him too. And it’s enough for him to fight harder.

“I know that my credibility isn’t the greatest,” he coaxes a small, sad scoff out of you, “but I truly believe that this, us, we’ll work. Because I know that I’m going to do everything I can to make this work.”

He feels bolder when you don’t pull away from his touch, folding your fingers into your palms and cupping over them. You observe the sight as it unfolds in lieu of a verbal response.

“I’ve spent four years judging any man that comes into your life, wishing I was in their place, swearing I would treat you better than all of them.”

Spencer feels the need to fill in the silence and he lets honesty guide his confession. He leans in further as if he’s indulging his deepest secret.

“Four years wasted wondering what could be, cursing out those idiots, but taking no action to make it happen. And that makes me the biggest idiot out of all of them.”

When he speaks like this, with his big, imploring eyes and prayerful tone, it melts your heart to a point where it almost hurts. The more he talks, the more you begin to lean in, opening yourself up to him.

“It took losing you to realise how badly I fucked up and for that I will never forgive myself. I know that I have no right to ask you to waste any more time on me…”

There’s no more resistance against the pull you both physically feel to each other.

“...but I’m begging you for a chance to do today what I should have done way before yesterday.”

Your faces grow closer by the second, you can feel each other's breaths against skin.

“And I’m going to spend every tomorrow proving what I said today.”

The likelihood of him changing your mind with one conversation wasn’t very high, both you and Spencer knew this when you got into it. You’re not entirely surprised when he somehow manages to overcome those odds too. You take the step to close the gap and lightly press your lips to his.

It starts off soft, there’s no lust, no ulterior motive behind it. It’s a simple confirmation that you’re both present and this is real. Spencer doesn’t shy away from the kiss, not that you’d call this a kiss. It feels more intimate, more unguarded.

Spencer pulls you onto his lap as he shifts and leans back against the backrest to allow more room for you. You wrap your arms around him and the kiss deepens. In the midst of you straddling him, he slides the entire chess board off the couch and the pieces scatter on the floor. It’s only when you feel that the kiss can’t bring you any closer to him does the lust emerge. It fuels a desire to prove that you both whole-heartedly belong to each other.

There’s no pinpointing when the switch happens. All you know is that the feeling of his lips against yours is no longer enough. You cup his jaw in your hands, swiping your tongue on his lower lip and it causes his grip on your waist to tighten. He parts his lips for you and it starts what you can only call a dance with your tongues.

Your breathing grows hotter, your hips subconsciously grind against him. There’s a prominent bulge that brushes against your heat and you whine into his mouth. Spencer grunts your name in response and then abruptly pulls away.

“Wait, wait, wait, slow down.” He breathlessly whispers against your lips.

“What?” You whisper back with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He gazes into your eyes, afraid that you might regret this later.

“I’ve never been more sure, actually.” You’re confident at first but the look in his eyes makes you pull back further. “Unless…you’re not sure?”

“No, don’t misunderstand me. I want you.” His tone rises just above the previous whisper with his clarification. “It’s just that the last thing I want to do is take advantage of you when our emotions are running high.”

“Four years, Spencer.” You lean in again, just brushing your lips against his. “The only reason you should be making me wait is if you’re not sure.”

He shuts that idea down by crashing his lips on yours. The kiss is so hungry, so desperate, it’s everything both of you have longed for and denied yourselves everytime you’ve been in each other's presence. It doesn’t take long for hands to start to roam. He traces the curve from your waist to your hips, stopping just at the hem of your shirt, tugging it like he’s asking for permission.

You rush to undo your buttons and he meets you halfway, starting at the bottom. His fingers brush against yours as you two reach the final button and you pull the fabric off yourself. You do the same with his shirt, lips remaining locked, except for the small gasps of air you take in between. It requires a bit more manoeuvring with him, but you’re both soon shirtless.

His mouth travels to your jaw and you shut your eyes from pleasure as he continues down to your neck. The stubble on his chin tickles your skin. You cup it, gently pushing him away with a giggle.

“Forget to pack a razor in your bag, Dr. Reid?” Your voice is teasing, more playful than seductive.

He chuckles, airily, hiding his groan. He knows you’re being sarcastic, but the use of his title, with your voice in this context, catches him off guard. You moan as you feel his growing bulge against your heat when his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you into his kiss. You swiftly undo the clasp of your bra, but before you can take it off, Spencer grabs you from just below the hips and lifts you up off him, gently laying you down on the seat of the couch.

There’s no room for hesitation as his lips find your neck again and he nips at the skin. Every suckle earns him short gasps and the grip in his hair tightens as he travels lower. He stops just above your breast, pulling himself up to sit on his knees. You stare up at him with a heated gaze, the nail of your thumb resting between your teeth with your lips parted to make up for the loss of his lips.

He reaches for your bra strap and begins pulling slowly, searching your eyes for any signs of you withdrawing consent. All he sees is how beautifully they sparkle when you give him a light nod. It’s been too long since he’s seen the stars that you hold in your eyes, stars he accustomed himself to before he even got to properly know you.

Gazing into his eyes, you’ve never felt more sure, more safe. You trust him implicitly and you’ve never wanted anything more. His constant need to make sure you're comfortable sends shivers down to your core. He slides the garment off you and Spencer’s beyond grateful that he’s already on his knees, knowing that if he was standing he’d fall to them because of the sight below him.

His eyes don’t falter once, he’s trying to permanently etch this moment into his brain. He hovers his fingers above your body, thumb brushing against your hardened nipple and you softly whine. He looks awestruck, almost like he doesn’t believe what’s happening. You can’t help but wonder if he thinks your boobs look weird.

“Beautiful.” The words fall out of his mouth in a whisper, as if on cue. He’s really just thinking out loud.

Before you can respond he lowers down and plants a small peck to your sensitive nub before taking it into his mouth. You gasp again, head lolling back in pleasure. One of your hands goes for his hair, while the other clings to his hand that’s already holding yours. He switches between sucking, pulling and squeezing; rolling it between his tongue and uses his teeth to squeeze ever so slightly.

“S–spencer.” A strangled moan falls from your lips.

You tug his hair, whining and moaning as your hips roll against the strain in his pants. When your motions become continuous, he lets out his own strained groan and is forced to release your nipple with a small ‘pop’.

“Angel, I really need you to stop doing that.” He murmurs in your ear with a gentle, gravelly tone.

As soon as the nickname reaches your ears your hips involuntarily buck up again, making his hips automatically push down against yours. His cock presses against your core and you both moan, his head falling against your shoulder.

“Spence, more.” You quietly whine in against his ear. “I need more.”

“More?” He echoes back, turning his head so that your lips brush past each other when speaking.

“Mhm.” You nod weakly as he brushes a strand of hair out of your face and weakly connects his lips with yours.

Even when he’s got you vulnerable and at your most compromised, he’s still as gentle as ever. You don’t feel him undo your pants or sneak his hand in them, but you definitely feel him press the pads of his fingers against your clothed clit. Air escapes through your nose in a huff of surprise and you hum in his mouth, hips jolting at his touch. He can feel your slickness through your underwear.

“Oh, my pretty girl.” He sighs, breaking the kiss and directing his whispers in your ear again. “All wet for me?”

“Please..” Even with your broken whimper you beg him for more.

“Like this?” His deft fingers swipe your panties to the side, fingers landing directly on the clit this time.

They feel cold at first. The contrast against your heated body makes you squirm and you groan in a soft, high pitch.

“What are you feeling right now?” He pries a verbal response from you, circling your bud lightly. “Tell me.”

“Good.” You sigh, eyes shut as you try to savour the pleasure.

“Good?” His voice is still soft against your ear.

“Mhm.” You nod, one arm draping against his shoulder and the other hand running along his scruffy jaw. “So good.”

“And this?” He adds pressure to his movements. “Does this feel good?”

Your hips buck again and he feels rewarded when you moan. There’s no doubt that the sound of your voice is his favourite. He especially loves it when it’s directed at him. Whether that be in the form of a laugh or your sweet moans. It makes him somewhat dizzy. His lips attach to the skin just under your jaw in an attempt to coax more.

It’s very effective. Fingers working your bundle of nerves, circling and flicking while changing the pressure, and mouth kissing and sucking near your pulse. It makes your back arch, hand gripping his shoulder so you don’t float away. He’s careful not to leave any purple traces of him on your neck, mindful of you being bombarded with questions from your colleagues.

“I love how reactive you are, Angel. You sound divine– fuck.” He can’t help the grunt that escapes him. “You are divine.”

His touch alone is enough to make you feel electric, but the sweet nothings he’s whispering in your ear will be what send you over the edge. It’s a foreign feeling, being reminded that he values you for more than just your body. Just under an hour ago you had incredibly high walls built around you and none of them are left standing as you exposed under him.

Spencer’s not the first man to touch you, but he is the first that loves you. It’s something you’re not at all used to and it feels as overwhelming as it does good. It transcends the want, no, the need for the man on top of you beyond lust or love. You plan to show him just how strong that need is tonight.

The carpeted floor is littered with your clothes, carelessly thrown around and tiny chess pieces scattered around the abandoned chess board. Spencer’s comfortably lying on the couch, facing the ceiling and you’re lying directly on top of him with your face buried in his neck.

You run your fingers back and forth along his jaw, scratching his beard in slow streaks. He’s enveloped you in his arms, one around your lower back and the other playing with your hair. It doesn’t feel as peaceful as it seems, both of you are afraid of being the first to speak. You know you can’t stay like this forever and you decide to bite the bullet.

“Spencer?”

You only get silence from his end. You know he’s awake because his motions in your hair don’t stop. You push yourself up to face him, trying to study his face. The sudden movement brings him back from wherever he was zoned out to.

“Hm?” His features jump.

Does he regret it?

“What’s wrong?” Your voice shakes from worry. “You have this look on your face.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just thinking.”

“About…?”

“How bad we are at communicating.” He chuckles. “It’s concerning when you think about how all we ever do is talk.”

Hearing this makes you snort and you fall into him again. It sends both of you into a short fit of laughter.

“Oh that’s promising for the success of this relationship.” You giggle, sarcasm evident.

Hearing relationship makes Spencer inhale sharply.

“So you’re staying?”

“Well obviously, Dingbat.” You scoff playfully at the question and shift upright, straddling him. “But we really do need to get better at the communication thing for this to work.”

Spencer mounts his weight on his hands by either side of him and pushes himself up to you, stealing a deep kiss.

“Yes, we absolutely do.” He whispers, breaking away for only a second.

The kisses fizzle in you a plethora of smaller kisses.

“Spencer, I’m– serious.” You voice in between, loosely draping your arms on his shoulders.

“I am too.” He says in a hushed tone as he pulls away.

“I want to take it– this,” you motion between the two of you with your finger, “us, slow. Not four years slow, but, like, by a couple of months at the very least.”

“Okay.” He agrees, his eyes scouring your face with complete adoration. It’s not ideal, but he understands where you’re coming from.

“That means that we start again. Romantically. We have to talk about a lot of things first.”

He shifts his body out from under you, resting his back properly against the couch and pulls you back into his lap in one swift motion. Both of his hands graze from your shoulder to your wrist.

“How about…you come over this weekend,” He suggests, wrapping his arms around your waist for a hug, “we’ll do snacks, a movie, maybe an actual game of chess.”

“That sounds like a date.” You wrap your arms around his neck to return the gesture and lean your forehead against his.

“It’s not a date. Not yet, anyways.” He whispers. “I’m asking you to come over this weekend so we can talk about things properly, because frankly, I don’t think either of us is in the right headspace for it right now.”

“Should I be offended at that?” You giggle, not entirely sure what he’s alluding to.

“No!” He snorts with a high tone. “Dopamine aside, our Norepinephrine and Serotonin levels are too high right now for us to have a proper conversation about this.”

“I’m not saying that you’re wrong, because you’re not, but I also think you’re just using science to try and confuse me, so that I agree to wherever this speech is heading.”

“It’s times like this where your attentiveness puts me at a disadvantage, because this tactic has a hundred percent success rate on everybody else.” He grins and you chuckle, both leaning in for another kiss.

“Can we hold off on starting over? Just for tonight.” He reluctantly voices, not wanting to push any boundaries.

You draw back and raise your eyebrows with your eyes widened.

“Spence, I have waited for years for this. You’re insane if you think I’m giving that up without relishing in it for at least a night. We’re not starting over until we’re both officially back on the clock.”

“Okay.” He heaves from relief, leaning in for another kiss, but quickly withdraws with a new question. “Don’t you think the team’s going to be suspicious when we’re not fighting tomorrow?”

“Forget them, what am I gonna say to Hotch when I ask to withdraw my resignation?” You huff out a tiny groan. “He’s gonna hate me for all this paperwork.”

Paperwork reminds you why you’re here to begin with. You audibly gasp, jumping off Spencer and scrambling to put your clothes back on.

“Fuck! Spencer, get dressed!”

Spencer doesn’t share your panic, but adheres to your demand. You mutter a continuous line of obscenities as you throw on your clothes and when you don’t seem to be getting calmer, he intervenes.

“Hey, hey, hey!” He coos as he steps towards you, still undressed on the upper-half. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that we’ve been here for hours!” You shriek, now fully dressed.

You push past Spencer and grab his shirt, deciding that he was too slow on his own. He lets you dress him as he probes further.

“That’s okay. No one’s going to notice this late.”

“No– Spence–” You sigh, throwing your head back. “In less than four hours, Hotch is going to walk into his office expecting the Anchorage report on his desk. I’ve barely been able to get half of it done in weeks, how am I going to finish it in four hours?”

You shake your head and begin working on his buttons. He grabs your wrists, urging you to look at him.

“You’ll have it done in less than one. I’ll help you!” His voice is light, airy, soft and accompanied with a chuckle.

“Spencer, you’ve already been here later than you need to be. It’s okay–”

“Let me help you.” He resorts to pleading, releasing your wrists and cupping your face.

You don’t have it in you to argue, his eyes staring back at you with sincerity. He wants to help. There’s no point in pushing him away, because as scared as you are about being too vulnerable with your trauma from that case, you trust him wholeheartedly. You know he won’t push for more than what you choose to share right now.

“Okay.” You nod and smile into the kiss he leans in for after the confirmation.

“Okay. Now, you go and start some coffee.” he instructs softly with a wide grin, waving to the scattered chess ensemble. “ I’m going to clean up here and join you.”

“I love you!” You lean for another kiss and hushedly exclaim as you break away, receding towards the door.

It’s Spencer’s turn to lose his breath. He’s affirmed his love for you countless times tonight and this is the first time you’ve verbally reciprocated it. He knows that it won’t be the last time either. That, to him, makes him the luckiest man in the world. He stops you from going any further by your arm and gently yanks you in his direction, crashing his lips with yours.

“I love you too.” He whispers after the kiss, letting you go.

Heat rises in your face again and you struggle to hide a huge dopey smile, one that Spencer has too. You’re floating on cloud nine, finally out of the blurry hurricane you’ve endured for months. There’s still a lot of things that you need to work out, but the thought of them doesn’t make you feel dread like it once did.

"One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is Love." - Socrates

Spoilers: Yapperoni (so much dialog in this chapter), BAU! Reader, enemies (kinda) to lovers, hurt, comfort, love confessions (they might be a little too sappy, idk, I was sleep deprived), the praise made me giddy at some point, smut but I edge you by not writing out everything, happy ending.

AN - I have a little tiny fear that people (me) will nawt (I don’t) fuck with this monstrosity, but out of all my drafts, this felt like the most natural course of action. I thought it would be really fun to go from friends to enemies to lovers. Now, literally nobody talk to me about writing fics after this. Uni’s started, so I’ll be very inconsistent for a bit. Casual reminder: I am not Spencer Reid. I don’t have an IQ of 187. Any facts I make him spew could very well be bull-shit and he only spews them for the purpose of the story. I also have no knowledge of how the FBI works and lack a ton of common sense. A lot of things were made up for the purpose of this story.

A comment today keeps semicolon away (from showing up to your house and eating all your snacks).

Thank you for reading!

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ozzgin · 1 year ago

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Yandere! Yakuza x Reader (IV)

Happy Holidays! Remember your plans to visit friends and family back in your home country? Scratch that. The Yakuza men have other ideas for you in this cozy Christmas special. And you finally get to meet their fearsome Boss, who has a request for you.

Content: female reader, fluff

[Part 3] | [Part 5] | [Yakuza Masterlist]

You stare at your phone in disbelief, rereading each line and hoping you've misunderstood the kanji. Daitou and Kazuya are quietly frowning behind you, unsure how to help in such a situation. Their lack of response only confirms it.

The brief paragraph is written in bold, red font: Due to weather conditions, all flights are cancelled until further notice. Passengers have been refunded and will need to repurchase their tickets at first convenience.

One glimpse at the last-minute prices and you're certain of it: you won't be going home for Christmas. You slouch and sigh, somewhat at peace with the idea. What else can you do? You might as well get yourself a KFC bucket and stare at the holiday lights in the city center. You and the couples taking cheesy Christmas selfies, who will later wonder about the gloomy loner behind them philosophically crunching on spicy wings.

"Don't look so defeated, (Y/N). You can just spend that time with us instead. We're not such terrible company, are we?" Kazuya jokes, trying to cheer you up.

"We could even go on a trip around New Year."

Your eyes light up in anticipation, the sadness vanishing almost instantly.

"Can we go to one of those hot spring inns? I've always wanted to visit an onsen." You put your hands together pleadingly.

"Whoa! Take me out to dinner first if you're that eager to see me naked." The blonde man winks at you smugly.

"How would I see you naked? The baths are separated, aren't they?" You inquire.

"We can't go to the regular ones." Daitou pulls his collar slightly downwards, revealing a fragment of his traditional tattoos. True. A yakuza would never be allowed among the civilians. "We'd have to book a private bath, so there wouldn't be anyone else."

You blush at the prospect of being alone with the two men. Kazuya notices your nervousness and is about to continue his teasing, but Daitou speaks before him, unbothered and oblivious:

"Besides, you've already seen me naked. I can tell you Kazuya doesn't look much different. There's nothing to be shy about."

The blonde man can only gawk, taken aback, and you shove Daitou in a flustered panic, fumbling to find an excuse or a change of subject.

He didn't have to make your business public like that, or he could've at least announced it without you being present. Judging by the blonde's speechless reaction, you're guessing he hasn't been told about your sneaky office smooching that led to the occasional sleepover. If you think about it, there's nothing shameful about being intimate with your boyfriend, but...It's not something you're fully accustomed to yet.

As promised, after the coworker incident you were soon greeted with a job offer in the neighborhood. When you went to your old office to discuss the mandatory year contract, the managers nervously handed you an approval for resignation and refused to discuss any details. You were free to go, no penalty or obligation. They had a fearful demeanor and you hoped Daitou didn't dismember anyone involved. Regardless of his means, you were now at the liberty to pursue other careers.

On the other hand, you were rather anxious about your new workplace. You had flashing visions of drug cartels and gambling parlors, with thugs rattling their drinks at you and demanding proper service. Windows breaking and masked men rolling onto the floor, armed to the brim. Ginza hostesses scurrying behind you and asking for help against an angered client. The night before your first day, you restlessly shuffled in your bed, plagued by second thoughts. What could you possibly do for the yakuza? What ghoulish demands would they prepare for you?

Daitou was the one to accompany you in the morning. He showed you to your desk, and you could discern the blurred frames of people angrily discussing matters in the opposing meeting room, separated by a large window. You gulped.

"They're building a new apartment complex two streets down." Your boyfriend mentioned casually, helping you settle with your belongings.

"Huh?"

"Oh, sorry, I thought you were curious about their talk."

"I mean, I am, but...Is that it?" You gazed at him incredulously.

"What else? This is a real estate office. Upstairs is the stock investments."

"Oh...Oh...I thought..." You were a little embarrassed. The imaginary scenarios of bloody battles and crimes that kept you awake felt quite ridiculous now.

Daitou seemed to have picked up on your assumptions, because he chuckled and ruffled your hair, following with an explanation.

"Boss is very strict with our Ninkyo-Do. If you're caught with drugs or petty theft, you're excommunicated. We used to have a bunch of gambling casinos as main income, but nowadays there's too much pressure from the police, ya know? Half of our members aren't even officially registered with the Yakuza, so they can't be tracked. We mostly do stocks and real estate. That's where the cash is.

Heh. Kinda boring, ain't it? I'm afraid you showed up way after the golden times. Even I'm too young for it. If ya want, I can ask one of the retired seniors to tell you about it. He has a lot of great stories."

You held your tongue from bringing up his frequent killing sprees and just nodded, amused by the fact that his code of conduct didn't register human casualties as wrong. The Yakuza have strict rules of ethics that set them apart from regular mafia. Depending on the Oyabun, or Head of the Family, this chivalrous way of living is reinforced to all members or conveniently swept under the rug. Daitou's Boss seemed to fit in the former category.

Therefore your "office job" turned out to be an actual office job without the quotes. Although you were often reminded the people passing by weren't your regular salarymen. Many of them were entirely transparent with you, striking up conversations about their latest arrest, or complaining about the poor quality of their pinky finger prosthetic they'd ordered from the Philippines.

But this isn't the time to reminisce. The prolonged silence is unbearable and one could fry eggs on your hot, burning cheeks. Kazuya is the one to break the awkwardness.

"Oh, yeah...You coming to the Christmas thing this evening?"

"We'll be there." Daitou smiles innocently, unaware of the discomfort he just caused.

Kazuya raises his eyebrows in surprise and looks at you.

"Did you...?"

"Yup. It's all fine." The dark haired man nods reassuringly.

"Then I'll see you at dinner, little (Y/N). Don't catch a fever with all that steam blowing out of you." He laughs at your still baffled expression and places his large hand on your head, departing.

Daitou holds the door open for you and you hurry inside. As you both walk down the hallway of the luxurious restaurant, you can't help the nagging feeling that he's once again omitted some vital information.

"Can you tell me again who else is coming? Just Kazuya?"

"Oh no, it's a Family meeting. So Boss and the rest of the Seniors, too."

You gasp in horror, but before you can scold him, you find yourself behind the canvas screen divider, facing a table of older men in suits, holding their drinks and eyeing you suspiciously.

"Oi, who the fuck is this, Daitou?" one of them growls.

"I already told you before, (Y/N). My girlfriend."

"Huh? Did you seriously just bring a civvy to our meeting? I knew you got a loose screw, boy, but this tops it all."

Daitou frowns and steps in front of you, visibly annoyed.

"If ya got a problem with my woman being here, I can settle it for you, old man. When was the last time you fought someone?"

"'s that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've gotten too comfortable sitting up there and barking orders. Let me remind you why they leave the killings to me."

The thick tension in the air is quickly dispersed by a loud, relaxed laugh. At the end of the table, a heavily scarred man with grey hair is clapping his hands in delight, seemingly amused by the events unfolding. He glances at you and pats a cushioned seat to his right.

"There you are! Come join us, miss (Y/N). Ignore those rusty grumps, they ain't seen a woman outside a host club." He throws the instigator a brief glare. "Is that any way to talk to my guest, Oota?"

The man swallows dryly and mutters an apology. He goes back to his drink, preoccupied, and the rest follow suit.

You hesitantly kneel down to your designated place, sheepishly peeking at the mysterious figure. Could it be? As if reading your mind, Daitou places an encouraging hand on your waist and lowers his head to your ear, swiftly whispering "that's Boss" before going to greet the others at the table.

"I-it's a pleasure meeting you, Sir." You mumble nervously.

"No no, pleasure is all mine. I'm Eiji Ijichi, 8th Head of our Family."

His introduction is unexpectedly warm and his easygoing way of speaking reminds you a lot of Daitou. The faintest grin threatens to appear, but you cover your mouth. With enough imagination, this could be the equivalent of meeting your in-laws. This is Daitou's family, after all. A criminally scary one, but nonetheless you've been welcomed with open arms.

"Do you drink?" The older man asks you, raising his porcelain cup.

"Naturally." You exclaim and lift your own cup enthusiastically.

"Attagirl!"

As the night progresses, the men at the table are loosening up under the influence of expensive alcohol. Kazuya seems to be caught in a terribly involved conversation with Daitou and one of their Captains, gesturing dramatically and occasionally raising his tone. You notice your glass has once again been filled by the waitress and take another sip, satisfied with observing their fun from the sidelines. Boss has a similar approach, gazing nostalgically over the rowdy group of thugs.

He reaches for his pack of smokes and you scramble to pick up the lighter, politely bowing as you light up his cigarette. He smiles at your gesture.

"I see Daitou's trained you already."

He ponders for a moment, gently blowing a cloud of smoke upwards.

"You'll make a good wife."

"Excuse me?" You question, startled by his sudden remark.

"It's hard to tell, but I'm getting pretty old myself." He snickers at his self made compliment. "Soon it'll be time to pick my successor. I have no children, unless you count that rascal I picked from the streets." He says as he tilts his chin towards Daitou.

"I love him like my own kid, but I'm sure you noticed he's a little off. Everyone is terrified of him. You can't have a leader if everyone runs away from him, ya know? I was starting to get worried I'd work myself through retirement. Kazuya can only do so much!

Then he comes up to me grinning like an idiot. I thought, 'There it is. He finally lost it', but instead he asks me if I want to see a photo of his girlfriend. Girlfriend?! I was ready to witness some crusty body pillow, my hand was on the phone to call our Family doctor. He shows me a cute foreigner standing next to him. Now I'm pretty sure he's not smart enough to fake photos like that, so it must be the real deal. 'How the Devil did ya pull this one?' I asked him. Cause listen, I was rather handsome back in my day and I still wouldn't have been this lucky.

And would ya look at that, it's the miss that moved into our apartments! How's the living conditions, by the way? Everything going fine?"

You nod energetically.

"Good, good."

He crosses his arms and nods himself, satisfied. He turns to gaze at you intently, with a face you can't quite read.

"You gotta excuse a drunk old man for rambling so much. What I'm trying to say...well...

Take care of him when he becomes the 9th, will ya? If he has you, I'm sure he'll manage. But don't tell him I said that! You gotta keep them humble. See, that's a lesson for you too. If there's one person the Head of the Family bows to, that's his wife! But I doubt he'd let the power get to his head."

You both turn to Daitou. He just finished pouring more sake to his superior and notices your stare. He blushes slightly and waves, unsure why he's suddenly being observed.

"I think so, too." You respond, waving back.

How would that look on a CV? Ane-san of a Yakuza family.

#female reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #male yandere x reader #yakuza x reader #yandere yakuza #yandere imagine #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere oc #yandere original character #oc x reader #mafia x reader #yandere mafia

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tradgedyinwaves · 3 months ago

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First Choice - Part 1

Poly141! x fat!reader tw: self fat shaming, social anxiety, drinking, mention of male appendages at the end

This late Friday night found you where it always did. Alone after watching all of your pretty, skinny friends filter out into the crowd. The plush of your ass settled over the edges of the stool and you're grateful the bar is pretty dark, easier to hide. A glass of whiskey is being nursed in your hands while your eyes take in the crowd, effectively also checking on your friends.

As your eyes rove over, they settle on the back table, tucked into the corner and surrounded by four larger than normal men.

The one with the mohawk is the loudest by far, his boisterous Scottish brogue filtering over the sounds of the crowd. He's got a hand wrapped around a half finished bottle of beer while he loudly recounts a story that makes all of them groan like they've heard it a million times.

The dark skinned one had to be the prettiest man you'd ever seen. His long fingers danced along the side of a glass of what looked to be rum and coke. His chuckle made his shoulders shake, shaking his head at his comrade.

The one with the thick mustache was laughing along with the Scot's story, butting in with his own interjections when he had something to add. His meaty paw held a glass of bourbon while the other gestured a bit wildly with a lit cigar.

The one with the mask though. He had an almost full glass of whiskey in front of him, arms crossed over his chest as he scoffed at the Scot's story. He had been there and he knew that wasn't quite how it went. His eyes trailed from his buddies at the table, doing another sweep of the room. The fifth one you've watched him do tonight.

This time is different. His eyes meet your and you duck your head, avoiding the eye contact. You'd known (the way someone with social anxiety knows) that people would think you weird, making eye contact with strangers. It immediately signals your fight or flight response, settling on flight even though you weren't in any danger.

When you glanced back up, he was looking back at his friends, but you didn't know he'd smiled softly and was now bringing the rest of his tables' attention to you.

In your new panic, you paid your tab and headed out the door. So when Ghost finally got the others to look your way, your seat was empty and the bell was chiming over the door.

"You sure she was there, LT?" Soap asked, clapping the other man on the shoulder.

"Was right there, on the end. Prettiest bird I ever saw," Ghost grunted, his mask wrinkling with his nose.

"Thass m'friend yer talkin bout," a pretty blond slurred at them as she hung on to a frat boy type that was more interested in running his hands all over her body. "Come 'ere e'ry Friday, woo!" She was herded off by her cohort, giggling as they headed for the door. "Guess we'll be here next Friday too then."

You walked home in the chilly night, anger and resentment flooding through your veins. They'd never give you a chance, not with all the pretty girls that were in that bar. You'd always been looked over for girls more beautiful or thinner than you. What was the line they always fed you? 'I love your personality, but you're just not...my type.'

Suffice it to say, the four men would head back to their shared flat, fisting their cocks to just Ghost's description of you and fiending for the next Friday to come.

I promise I'm working on the Touch Fivesome. There's a lot of details and functionality that I'm trying to figure out.

I couldn't get this out of my head. Inspired by another post along a similar vein. I can't remember who it was now, but it's been festering.

Update: I found the inspiration. :3 @devil-in-hiding

Part Two ->

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propertyofwicked · 10 months ago

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"it'll grow back" - LN

v short. just expressing my sadness for the loss of beard lando </3 it's been a rough day lads

tried a little bit of social media au stuff so lemme know if that works <3

“hey ba-”

“you are in so much trouble,” you announce as he picks up the phone, pacing around the airport waiting for your layover flight to join him in australia.

“wha-? why?” lando says, his voice wavering slightly in panic, trying to remember everything he’d done in the last 24 hours that could anger you.

“how could you? how could you shave before i got to say a proper goodbye?” you whine down the phone, exaggerating your sadness at the loss of his facial hair.

“im sorry ba-”

“no i dont wanna hear it. firstly - i had to find out through twitter! AND my flight lands in 5 hours - you couldn’t wait till then?”

“if i waited you would’ve talked me out of it!” he argues back in jest.

“precisely!” you argue, the phone line falling silent, asides from max laughing in the background, and lando clearly trying to stifle his own giggles.

“max you’re a traitor! you promised me you would stop him,” you say, knowing he can hear you. max says nothing in response, just continues to laugh until he’s wheezing.

the announcement of your flight boarding was probably well timed, alerting you that you need to leave before the argument get serious.

“get on your flight angel, ill be at the airport to pick you up when you land.”

“you better be, you owe me.”

when you finally spot him in the airport, your pace quickens to meet him and his embrace. he presses a kiss to the top of your head, his arms moving to rest on and behind your shoulders. your head rolls backwards slightly to look up at him, as sigh escaping your lips when you see the lack of facial hair in person.

“12 seconds!” max exclaims from behind him, holding up his phone timer, “it took you 12 seconds to make a remark about him shaving!”

“hey! i didn’t even say anything,” you argue back.

"debatable."

“it’s ok y/n - it’ll grow back,” lando says, grinning at you before looking down and kissing your lips. the lack of scruff touching your face is unfamiliar.

“but now it feels like i’m kissing a 13 year old boy.” max snorts at your response, lando just keeps smiling down at you.

“when did you last eat?” lando asks, moving the conversation along, as he grabs your suitcase and starts walking to the car, you and max stood either side of him.

“erm, on the first flight - so i don’t know but i am starving.”

“let’s go get you some dinner. i’ll pay, call it an apology.”

“lan, you’d insist on paying whether i was owed an apology or not,” you retort, moving to sit in the car.

“i’ll make it up to you tonight,” he says, smirking at you. you had almost forgotten max was there till he started making fake vomit noises at lando’s comment.

“i’d love to see you try.”

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris smut #lando x reader #lando smut #lando norris imagine #lando norris fanfic #formula 1 #mclaren f1 #mclaren #lando norris fluff #formula one smut #formula 1 smut #f1 smut #propertyofwicked #f1socialmediaau

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localplaguenurse · 3 months ago

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Helmet Head

Pyramid Head Capitano x GN Reader Smut (Kinktober Week 2)

We're on week 2! This one might already be my favourite because I got to experiment with more horror writing. As a result, this one is a lot longer than Arlecchino's. I hope you enjoy!

WARNINGS: Violence, body horror, blood, mild gore (honestly not really but might as well get my bases covered), other horror elements, dubcon (reader is into it but they’re also very scared and in a really fucked up situation), tenta-tongue.

Minors DNI

Your footsteps pound against the filthy tiles as you run almost blindly down the dark hallway. Screaming won’t do you any good, so you instead loudly gasp for the air your burning lungs are begging you for. You just need to create enough distance between the thing pursuing you that you can reload and take aim.

You stumble over and drop your flashlight in the midst of the fall. You hit the ground, and you hear a crack when your flashlight does as well. Quickly you roll over and sit up, and see the flickering of your dying flashlight.

“Fuck, fuck!” You go to reach for the light but stop at the sound of something staggering towards you from the darkness, pained croaks and garbled yelps echoing in the hospital’s hallways. You don’t know how it managed to close the distance, but you quickly snap out of your flight response when you realize this thing will be on you before you know it.

You find your revolver still affixed to your hip, and quickly jam your hand in your pants pocket to fish out the few bullets you scrounged up. The unstable stomping of the monster echoes through the decrepit hallway, barely audible over the pounding of your heart in your ears. You pop the chamber of the revolver open and in the dark and in your terror, you struggle to load the bullets in.

“Come on, come on, come on,” you mutter to yourself as you manage to load one, two bullets, but fumble and drop the third. You reach down and hurriedly try to find it. In your haste, you end up knocking the bullet away. It rolls into the flickering light of your flashlight, and then a bloodied, torn boot stomps down in the light.

You shriek, quickly closing the chamber and lifting the gun into the air. You squeeze the trigger, and you see a flash of the contorted man staggering as blood bursts from his shoulder, the deafening shot rings in your ears. You pull the trigger again, and in the flash you see blood burst from the misshapen head, and that’s when it lunges forward and pins you.

You scream and thrash, pulling the trigger over and over again, but feel none of the knockback of the gun going off. You shove the heavy body off of you and keep firing. You keep pulling the trigger until your hearing returns, and you realize the only sounds you can hear are your ragged breathing and the clicking of an empty gun. You don’t hear the monster gurgling or trying to move.

You pull yourself to your feet and stumble towards your light. You pick it up, and sigh in relief when you see it was just the lens that broke. The bulb is fine. With your light, you find the bullet you dropped in your panic. You pick it up and stick your hand in your pocket, and realize with horror that it’s empty. This is your last bullet. You have to make it last, and you have to make it count.

You point the light at the body on the ground and cringe in revulsion at the sight of it. The doctor’s uniform is stained red and brown and black, and you don’t know how much of it is blood, or if knowing that would be any real comfort. The face is the worst part, if you can even call it that. It’s misshapen, bubbled up and swollen like a blister or cyst ready to burst. There are filthy bandages wrapped around the head, but it looks like the almost blubbery skin has meshed with or even grown over the bandages in places. Matted teal curls sprout from the top of its head. In one of its gloved hands is a large knife, caked in all sorts of filth.

You don’t remember how you got here. By all accounts, you shouldn’t be here. The last thing you remember is sitting down at the bus stop after a night out with your friends. You don’t remember getting on the bus, you don’t remember the ride, and you definitely don’t remember getting off that bus in this place. You were watching cars pass you by in the bustling city and wondering if Ajax made it home safe, and then you were waking up on a completely different bench, in a completely unfamiliar town with crumbling buildings and a perpetual fog.

You’ve been here a few days now. You’ve given up on looking for help. You don’t know what happened here, but you learned very quickly that whatever “lives” in this foggy town isn’t going to be human (at least not anymore), nor is it going to be friendly.

You’ve already encountered a few of these… fleshy bubble headed doctors, but it doesn’t make looking at this one any less horrific. They’re all over the hospital, stumbling and limping down hallways until they see something human, something living, and then they give chase. The only thing that gives you any comfort is that they’re one of the few things you can actually kill. These and those weird puppet doll things you saw in an old apartment building you checked out when you first arrived. Ironically they looked the most human compared to these doctors. Most of them had already been taken care of by the time you found them, split in half, heads crushed, short black hair torn out, absolutely brutalized. You didn’t stick around long enough to meet who or what did all of that.

You take a deep breath, and steady yourself. You’ve spent long enough in this fucking hospital. You cautiously reach down and pick up the knife the doctor is still gripping even in death, and having to touch this foul thing makes your stomach twist. Still, if you want to make it out of wherever the hell you are, you’re going to need whatever protection you can get. You doubt this knife will help you much, but it’ll better your odds.

The halls are unsettlingly quiet now on the trek back. You cautiously poke your head into open doors, seeing if there’s anything worth taking or avoiding. There’s not much as far as useful medicine or bandages go. A lot of it is either expired, or contaminated, or you’re not even really sure what the hell it is to begin with. No bullets either.

Your light begins to flicker again, before going out. Swearing, you stop to try and fix it. Fixing it, of course, being smacking against your thigh. You end up knocking the rest of the glass out as you do, but after a couple hearty hits, the light flickers and comes back to life.

You sigh, and lift your light up to look right into the malformed face of another doctor.

You do not have the opportunity to scream before the rusty pipe slams hard into your side. You cry out, toppling over on the floor. You clutch your side, and through the tears welling up in your eyes you see the shadow lift its arm back up to swing at you again. You fight through the pain and manage to crawl back enough that the pipe slams down into the cracked tile between your legs. You orient yourself and raise your flashlight. The doctor struggles to stand up straight again, but it still has a vice’s grip on the pipe. It painfully winds its arm back and steps closer to your terrified form.

You quickly feel for your revolver, having lost track of the knife when the doctor first attacked you. You whip it out and pull the trigger, assuming that at this proximity, there’s no fucking way you would miss. Dead fucking wrong you are when this thing lunges forward to swing the pipe at your head, missing your face by millimetres while your bullet misses what would have been a perfect headshot. The flash of the gun going off lights up the hallway, and for a brief second you see a spark of ricochet just behind the doctor. Panicked, you pull the trigger again and only get an empty click. As the doctor prepares for another swing, the only thing you can hear are your thoughts.

Should have saved it for myself.

You brace yourself and hope that it’s a nice, quick swing to the head, and lights out for you.

The hit never comes. You watch the doctor stop dead in its tracks and let out a horrid, garbled scream as blood bursts from its chest. Warm droplets hit your face, and you see a large protrusion jutting out from the blood soaked coat. A blade. A sword?

The blade is pulled back out, and the doctor crumples to the floor, twitching and gurgling before finally going still and silent. That’s not what your focus is on, though.

It’s humanoid, and unfathomably massive in height and build. The skin of its arms is discoloured like a days old corpse, littered with scars and almost stained with blood. They’re also huge, the veins bulging from the biceps as if to tell you this thing could very well crush your skull with one hand if it so chose to. Considering the large, almost claymore-like blade it’s dragging around, you’re not surprised. It appears to be wearing an all black butcher’s smock, and you can see the fresh blood on the leather reflecting the beam of your flashlight. Your eyes continue moving up to its face, and find nothing. It dons a helmet that obscures the entirety of its head, save for its long, inky black hair. It almost looks like a knight’s helmet, with a metal jaw piece and a small chain dangling on each side of its head. Where the visor would be, there is none. Where the face would be, there is none. It’s a void, a maw of never ending darkness, and you can feel the abyss staring down at you.

Frozen, you stare back. You don’t know what else to do. You don’t have any ammo, you don’t know where the knife is, and you doubt the pipe would do anything to this thing. Hell, it might even just kill you if it sees you move.

You feel sick to your stomach with fear as it slowly raises its free hand up to the helmet. There’s a sort of star shaped cross on the very front of the mask, and it gingerly touches one of the points. You look right at it, and see that while three out of four points are sharp, this one is missing the tip. You wonder what it’s doing, then recall the scene that just transpired. When you shot at the doctor, you were going for a headshot, and it missed and the bullet ricocheted off something. It hit the helmet and broke the little star tip.

“S-Sorry…” you mumble, and you don’t think your voice has ever sounded so small.

The monster… thing… man lets out a noise. A sort of grunt of what you think is affirmation, but you only think that because this thing isn’t trying to kill you. Its staring is not comforting at all, but the fact it’s only staring gives you enough assurance to slowly and methodically stand up. The thing lifts its (his?) head as you do so, still watching.

On your feet, you find that he still towers over you. You put your gun away and just stare back. He stands statue still, this helmet headed figure, though you can see his fingers twitch around his blade. You’re scared and torn on what your next move should be. He’s blocking your only way out of the hospital, and you hate the idea of getting closer to him to try and shimmy past, but you fear the thought of taking your eyes off of him for even a moment to backtrack and look for another way out.

… Well, he still hasn’t killed you yet. Maybe you could talk to him?

You clear your throat, and force yourself to meet where you think his gaze is. “Th… Thank you,” you tell him, voice still a little shaky with looming anxiety. “You saved me.”

His hand twitches at the sound of your voice, and you feel a shiver run up your spine. Still, he doesn’t try anything, just continues staring at you. You take a step forward to test the waters, to see if he’ll do anything. The only thing he does is turn his head slightly to keep you in his line of sight. You feel weird for thinking it, but the hulking, helmeted figure is kind of...

You take another step forward. “Can… Can I m-move past? I’m just trying to get out of here, I-I don’t wanna bother you.”

A groan echoes out of the helmet when you get closer, freezing you in place. After a moment of quiet, you take another step, and this time it sounds more like a growl.

“Okay, I-I’ll take that as a no…” You step back, mindful of the doctor’s body. “Are you unable to let me through?”

He tilts his head.

“Like… do you need something from me? Is there something I can do or get for you to let me through?”

The man straightens his posture and sort of grumbles, but you can’t make out any words. It’s hard not to shrink under his gaze as he seemingly sizes you up head to toe. It’s very nice how he’s not killing you or chasing you down the dark halls, but you’re already regretting your offer to help him. What could you do that this hulking behemoth can’t, but also, you know doing a favour for anything or anyone in this place is bound to be a traumatizing endeavor.

You jump when you hear the screech of metal scraping on the floor. You’re immediately reminded of the actual fucking danger you’re in when the beast begins to approach with heavy footsteps you can barely hear over the scraping of his blade dragging on the floor. Fear seizes you and you immediately turn to run, but you’re not given the chance to do so before a strong hand grabs your arm. You try to pull free, but his grip is unrelenting. You’re pulled towards him with more strength than you could imagine, which sends you stumbling into his chest.

You hear the clatter of his blade dropping to the floor, and his other hand grabs your other arm. You try to move, but he squeezes your arms tight, quietly telling you to knock it off. Your heart pounding, you look up at his helmet, wondering what he’s thinking and how the hell you’re going to get out of this.

“W-What do you want?” you ask.

After a moment of holding you and staring, you see something writhe in the darkness of his helmet. Confusion and fear twist in your stomach as you watch it slip out from within the helmet. It’s some sort of tendril tongue, you think, blackened and slimy. You watch as it traces along the metal jaws of the helmet before slipping back into the darkness.

What?

You have no idea what compels you to do this, but you find your eyes drifting down his body. To your shock, you see something poking out from under the smock—

OH.

Your jaw drops, face going pale yet also burning up. What the fuck. What the fuck. Is this thing asking for you to take care of that?!

You tear your eyes away from the prominent tent in his crotch and look up at him. You point at it. “Y-You want me to help with that?”

He groans deeply, his tongue flicking out for a brief moment.

You swallow, and you weigh your options. Is refusing even an option, or would he just kill you? Hell, with his strength and the size of his bulge, that alone might kill you. It’s probably something weird, too, knowing what you’ve been dealing with since arriving. That said, your other option of trying to look for another exit while there are still monsters roaming isn’t much better. You’d walk (or crawl, more likely) away from this alive, at least. Probably.

There’s also a little voice in the back of your head telling you you’re probably going to die in this town anyways. If you’re going to die, it’s not like this is going to make your fate that much worse. Might as well get laid before you kick the bucket.

“...” You swallow. “Just go easy on me, please?”

You shriek when the ground beneath you disappears, and you’re swung over his shoulder effortlessly. Looking behind him, you see the full glow of the exit sign, and then he starts to walk away, back in the direction you came from. The scraping of his blade on the ground is grating on your ears.

The man, Helmet Head as you’ve decided to call him, turns into what you think is an empty exam room. He lifts the blade, and with a loud clang, stabs it down into the ground. You hardly have the chance to process what’s going on before you’re more or less dropped on the floor. You try to sit up, but Helmet Head plants his hand against your chest and firmly pushes you back down. So much for going easy, you think, but can’t deny the bizarre thrill you feel. You vaguely recall making fun of Ajax for his weird and dangerous tastes, but he might have been onto something now that you’re in the weirdest and deadliest situation you think you’ve ever been in.

Wasting no time, his large gloved hands grasp your waist and digs his fingers under the waistband of your pants. You yelp when he yanks them down, and you hear the unmistakable sound of ripping denim. He tosses them aside, and goes to grab onto your underwear, but you throw your hands up in defense. “Hold it, I-I got it.”

Helmet Head watches you awkwardly pull your underwear down. He doesn’t even wait for you to toss them aside before his hands are on you again. He grabs hold of your legs and shoves them against your chest, folding you in half. You can feel his gaze focused on your sex, your heart pounding in your chest.

You watch as his tongue slips out from the darkness of his helmet. With his hands still hooked under your knees, he lowers his massive body with a groan. You can feel and hear his hot, heavy breathing echo from his helmet and fan over your chilled skin. Goosebumps raise up on your skin as you realize what he’s about to do.

You think you open your mouth to protest, to tell him to slow down, but the thought is gone the moment you feel his thick tongue slip into your hole. You gasp and jolt, whining as you feel it twist and writhe deeper inside you. Shocks of pleasure shoot up your spine at the feeling, making you moan with every movement. You scrape your nails against the tile in an effort to steady yourself.

He grunts and groans as he slowly pumps his tongue in and out of you, the debauched sounds sending heat through your whole body. The only reason you’re not writhing uncontrollably is the death grip Helmet Head has on your legs. You almost want to grab his head to pull him closer, but there’s still that somewhat logical side of your brain that tells you it’s not worth the risk of provoking him. That voice is mostly drowned out by your own cries of pleasure as his tongue sinks deeper inside you, pressing into your sweet spots with ease.

Abruptly, his tongue slithers out of you and disappears into the helmet again. You whine at the empty feeling, lamenting how good it was starting to get. The lamenting is cut short when you are unceremoniously flipped over onto your stomach. You go to sit up on your hands and knees, only to be shoved back against the floor, cheek pressed against the cold, dirty tiles.

You hear the click of buckles, the shifting of leather rubbing on leather. You hear the echoey rasping of Helmet Head, and then you feel something nudging against you. Your eyes widen. You’re actually doing this. You’re actually going to fuck this thing. You take a deep breath and attempt to relax your body as much as you can. You didn’t get a good look at his cock, only the outline of it from under his smock, but you know it’s gonna be huge.

He nudges the tip against your whole, pressing into it. You whine at the stretch, and gasp when it finally slips inside. You feel your stomach flutter and your face go pale. This is only the tip, and yet it feels so much thicker than his tongue. Still, you try to control your breathing and relax yourself.

The agonizing stretch as he slowly inches deeper and deeper inside you is absolutely maddening. You’re forever thankful that he at least listened to your request about going easy, but that only helps you so much. You’re not in pain, but the feeling is so overwhelming that it feels like with every inch that manages to sink further inside your hole, the less air you’re able to breathe.

You shudder in relief when you feel his hips finally press up against your ass. Warmth fills your body at how full you feel with him down to the hilt inside you. The little air you have in your lungs is immediately knocked out when Helmet Head begins to draw back. He slips out about halfway before he abruptly pushes back into you, making you shriek in shock and pleasure.

His pace is by no means brutally fast or hard, but he sure as shit isn’t soft and gentle with you. Every breath is knocked out of you in some vulgar moan or profane sob whenever his fat cock is thrust into your sensitive spots. You feel shame, you should feel shame. You should feel shame and disgust for letting such a creature defile you, and yet you don’t. In fact, it somehow makes the pleasure more intense, knowing how wrong this all is, knowing the danger you’re in right now.

“More,” you choke out between moans, “f-fuck me, I need it, I want it!”

You shriek when he draws back all the way only to immediately slam back down to the hilt. You feel your eyes rolling back, drool running down your chin as he repeatedly slams back into you at full force and full speed. Your chest burns as you try to breathe, but the suffocating feeling of his fat cock stretching and filling you only makes your head lighter and your body hotter.

Your whole body shakes and your teary eyed vision goes white as you feel your orgasm hit you full force. You clamp down on Helmet Head’s cock, but neither that nor your climax slows him down. He doesn’t stop, even when you start clawing at the tiles, shrieking that it’s too much, he’s too much. He doesn’t stop when his unrelenting pounding forces you into a second orgasm, or when he brings you to overstimulated tears.

It’s when you’re somewhere between your third or fourth climax, or while you’re still experiencing your third, that Helmet Head roars and slams into you so hard that he pins your hips down into the ground. His body goes rigid, his panting just as loud as yours, and you let out a pathetic little sob of relief that the pleasure has come to an end. That’s when you feel him swell inside you, and warm floods your insides and spills out at the edges. You whine and try to move away, but his weight is holding you in place against the floor, forcing you to take every drop he has to give you.

It feels like an eternity before the heavy weight of his imposing figure finally lifts. You’re so exhausted and your throat is so raw that you hardly have the strength or voice to whine when he finally pulls out. You weakly reach down between your legs, feeling his seed pour out of your stretched hole.

Despite the ringing and pounding in your ears, and the dizzying pleasure clouding your mind, you’re just cognizant enough to hear the outside world. At first, you think the sound is just the ringing of your ears, until it starts to get louder. It’s an awful, wailing noise, and it takes you a moment to realize you know what that sound is. It’s a siren, it’s the siren, the siren that goes off when everything is either about to go to shit, or it’s about to be less shit.

You heard Helmet Head groaning again, and you just barely have the strength to roll over and look. You watch as he gets to his feet, adjusting the straps on his smock. He reaches over and wraps his gloved hand around the handle of his weapon. Effortlessly, he yanks it free, and for a second you wonder if he’s going to impale you right here.

Instead, you watch as he completely turns around and heads for the door, dragging his weapon behind him. He turns in the direction of the building’s exit, and soon disappears from view. You can still hear the screeches of metal on tile echo down the hall, slowly growing quieter before disappearing altogether.

You lay back on the floor, your head flopping to the side. You find yourself peering under one of the medicine cabinets, when you notice something odd. There’s something underneath it. With little strength and aching legs, you manage to crawl over to the cabinet, You slide your hand underneath and are just barely able to reach the strange item.

You pull it out, and your eyes widen. It’s a full, albeit small, box of revolver ammunition. You feel a smile curl onto your lips, and let out an exhausted laugh. Looks like you’re not dying that soon.

Maybe you’ll live long enough to see him again.

#capitano #capitano smut #capitano x reader #minors dni #genshin smut #kinktober #tw monsterfucking #tw blood #tw horror #tw body horror

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kira-dofc · 6 months ago

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Mafia boss! Sukuna x Male reader

Notes- This was supposed to be a Gojo fic but Sukuna fitted this shit better its too dark for Gojo :(

Wc- 3055

Warnings: SMUT! NSFW, unprotected sex, dub-con, breeding, omegaverse, top/bottom, sub/dom, bottom male reader, overstimulation

Flashes of orange and yellow flames streaked past you, casting a fierce glow that punctuated the night with a hellish light. The deafening crack of gunshots shattered the eerie silence, bullets whizzing through the air like deadly fireflies. It was 10:00 p.m., and the city that never slept was now cloaked in an ominous stillness, save for the chaos erupting around you. Frantically, you ran, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest, fleeing from the world's most notorious mafia. For years, they had hunted down omegas with unrelenting ferocity, and tonight, you had become their latest target. As the last of your kind, you had been hiding from them for a long time. Unluckily, tonight marked the end of your concealment. You were unique, hailing from a wealthy lineage.

Your family had perished before your eyes, leaving you to carry on the bloodline. It was them. It had always been them. They murdered your family, your only family. And you had been too naive to do anything but hide, bearing all the responsibilities alone. But that was six years ago. Now, you needed to devise a way to throw them off your trail.

Bloodstains smeared almost your entire body. Your legs were limp, and one of your bones was broken. You fled toward the heart of the city, tears streaming down your cheeks as you sprinted away from the terrifying sounds of pursuit. The once-bustling metropolis had turned into a ghost town, its inhabitants cowering indoors, unwilling to risk becoming the mafia's next victim. The streets were deserted, the silence broken only by your ragged breathing and the distant echoes of violence.

Each step felt like an eternity as adrenaline surged through your veins. You could almost sense their presence behind you, a shadow of death closing in. It seemed they were tracking you by your scent. The sweet, floral fragrance that emanated from your body had made this escape even more challenging. Your sweet blood flowed through your veins, each drop hitting the ground and leaving a trail. You pressed your hands against your wounds, trying to stop the bleeding and prevent them from following your scent. Your mind raced, replaying the events that led to this desperate escape. It had begun with whispers, rumors of the mafia targeting omegas, and then the brutal reality struck as friends and acquaintances began to disappear, leaving only bloodstains and unanswered questions. Their actions were inexplicable: Why would they target people like you? You had witnessed countless deaths at their hands, many shot, others thrown into pits of fire. They burned all the bodies of their victims.

The neon lights of the city, once symbols of vibrancy and life, now cast eerie, elongated shadows that seemed to grasp at you. You rounded a corner, your feet slipping on the rain-slicked pavement. The distant wail of sirens was a cruel reminder that help would not come in time. You had to rely on your instincts and sheer will to survive.

Suddenly, a narrow alleyway caught your eye. Without thinking, you darted into it, hoping to lose your pursuers in the labyrinth of backstreets. But as you ran deeper, the walls seemed to close in, and the alley twisted into a nightmarish maze. The sound of footsteps grew louder, echoing off the brick walls, a relentless reminder that they were drawing closer.

Your frantic flight led you to a dead end, a towering brick wall blocking your path. Panic surged through you as you desperately tried to find a way over it, your fingers scrabbling at the rough surface. The wall loomed high above you, an insurmountable barrier that seemed to mock your desperation. You could hear their voices now, low and menacing, carried on the wind.

You turned to face them, your breath coming in short, terrified gasps. Shadows danced at the entrance of the alley, and then they emerged, dark silhouettes against the dim light. There was no escape. Your eyes darted around, seeking any possible way out, but there was none. The realization hit you like a tidal wave – you were trapped.

One of the men stepped forward, his face obscured by shadows, but the cold glint in his eyes was unmistakable. He raised his weapon, and in that split second, time seemed to slow. You braced yourself for the impact, expecting the searing pain of a bullet. Instead, there was a sharp sting, more like a needle prick than a gunshot.

Confusion mingled with the adrenaline, and a wave of dizziness washed over you. Your vision blurred, and your legs wobbled beneath you. You staggered, trying to stay upright, but your strength was failing. The world around you began to spin, the alleyway becoming a distorted swirl of colors and shadows.

With a final, desperate effort, you reached out to the wall, hoping to steady yourself, but it was too late. Your fingers brushed against the cold bricks before your legs gave way completely. You collapsed to the ground, the impact jarring but distant, as if it were happening to someone else. The cold, unforgiving pavement pressed against your cheek, and darkness crept in at the edges of your vision.

The last thing you saw before everything went black was the triumphant, merciless faces of your captors as they closed in around you. Their voices were muffled, distorted by the haze of unconsciousness, but the satisfaction in their tones was unmistakable. As the world faded away, one thought lingered in your mind – this was only the beginning of a nightmare that had no end in sight.

As the cold seeped into your bones, memories of happier times flickered in your mind like a fading film reel. You remembered your family's laughter, the warmth of your mother's embrace, and the security you felt in your father's presence. Those moments seemed like a lifetime ago, swallowed by the darkness of the present. The mafia had taken everything from you, and now they were about to take your freedom, perhaps even your life.

The darkness enveloped you completely, a void that swallowed all light and sound. Time lost its meaning as you drifted in and out of consciousness, your mind a whirlpool of fear and despair. When you finally awoke, you found yourself in a dimly lit room, the air thick with the smell of damp and decay. Your hands were bound, the rough ropes cutting into your wrists, and your body ached from the rough handling and the injuries sustained during your escape.

A single, flickering light bulb cast eerie shadows on the walls, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed in the background. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and something metallic—probably blood. You struggled to sit up, wincing at the pain that shot through your limbs with every small movement. Your captors had taken no chances, securing you tightly to a chair with heavy, rusted chains. The room was bare, save for a small table covered in ominous stains and a single door, which you guessed led to more horrors beyond.

The door creaked open, its sound amplified in the silence, and a figure stepped inside. It was the man who had shot you, his cold eyes glinting with cruel amusement. He approached slowly, savoring your fear, and knelt down to meet your gaze. His smile was a twisted parody of kindness, and his voice was soft, almost gentle, as he spoke.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," he said, his tone mocking. "You gave us quite the chase, but it seems the game is over now."

You glared at him, refusing to let him see the terror that gripped your heart. "What do you want from me?" you demanded, your voice hoarse from disuse and dry from lack of water.

The man chuckled, a low, chilling sound that echoed in the small room. "Oh, it's not me who wants something from you," he replied. He turned his head slightly towards the door, and with a simple, "Boss," he summoned another figure into the room.

A tall, hooded figure stepped in front of you. His eyes were as red as fire, and his hair was a lush cascade of pink, shimmering even in the dim light. His eyes furrowed as he looked down upon you, scrutinizing your scarred figure. His face etched into a grin that sent shivers down your spine. This was Sukuna, the infamous leader of the most feared mafia syndicate in the world.

Sukuna bowed down to your height, his intense gaze never leaving yours. He tilted his head slightly, scanning you as if you were a specimen in a lab. "Let me clear things up for you," he chuckled as he stood back up. "It's not about what we want. It's about what we need. You see, you are the last of your kind, and that makes you very valuable to us. And very valuable to me. Your blood, your lineage, your body."

You squinted your eyes, trying to understand what he was saying. It was hard to focus through the haze of pain and fear, but his words were starting to piece together a horrifying picture. They didn't just want to torture you; they wanted to exploit you, to use you for some nefarious purpose. The thought filled you with a renewed sense of defiance, and you vowed to fight them with every ounce of strength you had left.

Sukuna's voice dropped to a soft, almost affectionate tone. "I want you to be my mate," he said, his words causing a cold shiver to run down your spine. "Consider it a sacrifice; you'll be saving your race, your population. You can save them."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You struggled against your restraints, your mind racing. "Then why did you kill all of them?" you spat out, your voice trembling with rage and sorrow. "Why? Why do it if you just wanted someone? You could have just taken one and left the rest of us be."

Sukuna's grin widened, and there was a maddening glint in his eyes. "Why are you doing this?" you demanded, your voice breaking.

He leaned in close, so close you could feel his breath on your skin. "Oh, I only did this so I could finally get you," he said with a chilling calmness. "I wanted you, and you only. You managed to get away when we slaughtered your whole family. I only did this so I could be with you, my prince."

His words were a twisted declaration, and you could feel the bile rising in your throat. He chuckled as he whispered those words close to your ears, his breath hot and foul. He grazed his hand along your chin, lifting it to force you to look into his eyes.

"Clean him up, then bring him to my room," he ordered the man who had shot you. "I want him clean when I see him again." With a final smirk, Sukuna turned away from you and walked out of the room, leaving you with the chilling promise of what was to come.

The man who had shot you moved to obey Sukuna's orders. He released the chains that held you to the chair, though he left your hands bound behind your back. You were too weak to resist, too weak to do anything but stumble as he dragged you out of the room and down a long, dimly lit corridor.

The corridor seemed to stretch on forever, each step echoing off the cold, stone walls. The faint sound of dripping water followed you, a constant reminder of the dank, underground prison you found yourself in. You were led into another room, this one slightly less decrepit than the last. It had a small basin of water, a towel, and a change of clothes laid out on a table.

The man pushed you towards the basin. "Clean yourself up," he said gruffly. You stared at the water, the reflection of your battered face staring back at you. Every movement was painful, but you forced yourself to comply, knowing that any defiance now would only result in more pain.

You washed as best as you could with your hands still bound, the cold water stinging your wounds. When you were done, the man handed you the change of clothes—a simple, clean shirt and pants. He watched you closely as you struggled to dress yourself, his eyes never leaving you.

Once you were dressed, he grabbed your arm and led you out of the room again. You were taken to yet another corridor, this one even darker and more foreboding than the last. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of your footsteps and the occasional distant echo of voices.

Finally, you were brought to a large, imposing door. The man knocked once, then pushed it open, revealing a lavishly decorated room. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and expensive-looking furniture filled the space. It was a stark contrast to the squalor of the rest of the compound.

Sukuna was waiting for you inside, seated in an ornate chair. He looked up as you entered, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. "Ah, there you are," he said, his voice dripping with mock warmth. "You look much better now."

You stood there, your body tense and your mind racing. What was he planning? What did he want from you? The uncertainty was almost worse than the pain. Sukuna rose from his chair and approached you, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Come, sit with me," he said, gesturing to a chair opposite his. "We have much to discuss."

You hesitated, but the man behind you gave you a sharp shove, forcing you to comply. You sat down, your hands still bound, and glared at Sukuna. "What do you want from me?" you repeated, your voice filled with defiance.

Sukuna's smile widened. "I told you, didn't I? I want you to be my mate. Together, we can rebuild your race, your people. You are the key to everything."

His words were like a knife to your heart. You couldn't believe what you were hearing. "Why would I ever agree to that?" you demanded.

"Because you have no choice," Sukuna said simply. "Either you cooperate, or you watch as I destroy everything you hold dear. The choice is yours."

His words hung in the air, a chilling ultimatum that left you feeling more trapped than ever. You knew you had to find a way out, to escape this nightmare. But for now, all you could do was sit and listen, and wait for the right moment to strike.

"Leave," He ordered, "I want some privacy." The men in front of the door nodded and leaved in order.

Sukuna walked around the table, his eyes never leaving yours. He leaned down, his face inches from yours. "I can see the defiance in your eyes," he murmured. "It's...exciting."

You turned your head away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But Sukuna grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. His grip was strong, almost painfully so. "Don't look away from me," he said softly.

He pressed his lips to yours, the kiss rough and demanding. You tried to pull away, but his hand on your chin held you in place. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, claiming you in a way that left no room for doubt—he was in control.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathless, a mixture of anger and confusion swirling inside you. Sukuna's eyes glittered with satisfaction. "See? That wasn't so hard," he said, his voice mocking.

He reached down and began to unbutton your shirt, his fingers moving with a practiced ease. You tensed, every muscle in your body screaming at you to fight, to resist. But the man behind you had a firm grip on your shoulders, holding you in place.

Sukuna's hands roamed over your chest, his touch both gentle and possessive. "You're beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself. "So perfect."

You shuddered, a mixture of fear and unwanted arousal coursing through you. Sukuna's hands moved lower, unbuttoning your pants and sliding them down your legs. He knelt in front of you, his eyes dark with desire. "I want to taste you," he said softly, his breath hot against your skin.

A sudden tug was felt on your shirt, Sukuna lifted you up. Everything went by so fast, your were now on his bed. Your shirt and your pants was tossed to the ends of the bed leaving you bare with your underwear wet as your cock begging to spring out. Your face was flushed between your hands as Sukuna chuckled "You're too cute to handle, boy" He soon unbuttoned his polo, leaving his body bare for you to see.

His body was toned, veins aching from every muscle. His jawline defined, his hands were scarred, veins and bones revealing themselves under the skin of his hands. He moved down to you as he whispered to your ears, "You're mine."

Sukuna groaned as he held your hips with harsh and fast thrusts. Every thrust he makes make you squeal and let out moans. Your body now aching with love bites and hickeys as you left scratches on Sukuna's back. His fast thrusts soon slowed as he leaned on you, "Take all of my pups for me, yeah?" He groaned as he came, knotting your insides as you came on his stomach. Your moans shifted into breathless sighs.

One round turned into 20. Its been 1 hour and a half before his dick throbbed your insides. His shape now taking form of your hole, "Ugh...! N-no Ah..., more....." You moaned as you whispered in his ears. "You don't get to order me," He groaned as he whispered back to you, "Just one more darling. Raise all my pups inside you..." He leaned closer to your face as he planted a kiss on your forehead as he thrusts in and out of you. You hugged him tightly as you felt your climax. One final thrust, his cock spurted out his pups in you for the twentieth time.

You breathed heavily, as your rested your head on the mattress. His hands trailed to your neck to your jaw, moving your head to face him. "I'm not done with you," He says as he kissed you on your neck, through your chin and on your lips. He groaned as he laid next to you. Your head facing his chest as his hands covered your waist.

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readwritealldayallnight · 3 months ago

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A Stranger is a Friend You Haven’t Met Yet… (Part 2)

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 5.5k words

(18+ mdni) warnings/tags: kinda barely enemies to lovers, tension, grinding, dry humping, finishing with clothes on, Ghost does not do feelings™️, mask stays on (for now)

‘Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst’.

That was something something you told yourself often, working as a woman in close contact with the military. Especially so when starting new assignments for the first time, landing on a new base, meeting new faces. More often than not the grand majority of those faces were men. Large, intimidating, burly men. Some of whom sometimes held certain feelings about a woman being brought in to work alongside them.

The first time you’d met Captain Price on yet another new base for yet another new assignment, shaking hands with the tall man, you’d once again repeated the familiar phrase to yourself. If only you could have known there was no real way to prepare for meeting the 141.

He walked you through numerous zig zagging hallway and corridors that made up the heart of the base, leading you towards the briefing room where you’d be meeting the rest of the task force your employer turned friend Laswell had assigned you to assist. Your work as a highly skilled translator meant that your unique credentials made you a vital asset to anyone you worked for. You were only a year out of finishing your degree when Laswell had scooped you up, seeing the potential in you.

As your mind shifted to her, you halted your steps, cursing yourself silently. You’d promised Laswell you would text her and let her know when you’d made it to your hotel safe last night. After the chaos of being left out in the dark, pouring rain at the wrong address following a 10 hour flight where they put your luggage on the wrong flight, being unable to find reception walking along a sketchy, desolate road in search of a way of calling a cab, being rescued by a large, mysterious, enticing stranger on a motorcycle, you’d forgotten to text Laswell before you crashed on the hotel bed that night.

It had equally slipped your mind the next morning when you woke up in a panic, only a few hours later due to the early start time of the briefing, shoving your still wet clothes into the questionable hotel dryer, hoping it would be good enough in time for your mad dash to the base. All this to say, the last 24 hours had left you frazzled, and you’d completely forgotten to get back to her.

“I’m so sorry Captain, I-”

“You’re welcome to call me Price, if you’d like. You’ll find we’re not always so formal ‘round here.” The older man replied, also pausing his foot steps so as to not leave you behind, offering a kind smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes.

“Price,” you corrected, offering him back the best smile you could muster up at that moment. “You’ll have to forgive me, I just need 60 seconds to contact Laswell, that’s all. I was supposed to-”

“Say no more.” He interrupts, holding his hands up as if in a display of mock surrender, taking one small step back towards the door to the briefing room. “If it’s Laswell, I don’t want to held responsible for upsettin’ her. Used up enough favours with her already to finally have her send you over our way.”

You offer him a genuine chuckle at that last comment, knowing that Kate is in fact more often than not bombarded with requests for your skills, and that the head of the 141 was one of those little birdies often chirping in her ear.

“I’ll give you a few minutes. Come in when you’re ready.” He kindly offers you before excusing himself into the briefing room. You take a steadying breath, pulling out your phone and quickly typing out a message to your friend, not wanting to cause a worse first impression than you might already be currently doing. The soft whoosh sound of your text being sent has barely touched your ears before you’re hiding your phone away, ready to get this show on the road.

Your hand is reaching out to twist the door handle, catching the tail end of Price’s deep voice telling someone that he’s “been tryin’ to get ahold of her for a long feckin’ time now.” before an excited Scottish accent adds “So it is a lass??”

‘Hope for the best, prepare for the worst’ you thought one last time before opening the door and walking in to meet the 141.

“Last time I checked, yes, I’m still a ‘lass’.”

To your utter surprise, the transition into working alongside the 141 had been the easiest, dare you even say, the most fun, you’ve had in a long, long time. Price is a kind and fair leader, always looking out for his teammates. You, Soap and Gaz have gotten along with ease from the get go, the Sergeants taking an immediate liking to you.

“Is it really 11?” Gaz had asked you during that very first briefing between the five of you, a playful smiling stretching across his young, handsome face. Soap was gazing at you beside him with equal, genuine curiosity across his features.

“Yes, it’s 11.” You confirmed for them, used to the question at this point. It was a fair question, and you knew that. It wasn’t every day that they met someone who was perfectly fluent in six languages, fairly fluent in 3, and knew enough to effectively translate in another 2 languages. Sometimes, if you stayed on with a team for long enough, you forgot how ‘odd’ your work was, seeing people’s reactions for the first time, raving about how they wish they had your ‘gift’.

In actuality, your knowledge felt like the furthest thing from a gift, some days. Your skills were the result of hard work, blood, sweat and tears. You’d been raised in a household where 3 languages were spoken on a daily basis, and so though you did have that advantage early on in life, when you chose your path after high school graduation and decided to learn more than the 3 you already knew, you’d dedicated more effort to your pursuits than you ever had before.

Discovering your love for learning languages, your nose was never not in a book. This is how one of your first every contracts gifted you with the nickname that stuck with you to this day. Though you weren’t technically military, only working with them, the call sign was deemed too perfect not to be yours. This was something Soap was very curious about upon meeting you, and wasn’t shy to hide it.

“And the wee call sign? How’d a sweet lass like you end up being called that?” He questioned, earning a sideways glance from his superior, who was beginning to open his mouth to probably scold him before you laughed and reassured him it was fine.

“I was just starting to study Russian when I’d landed on what would be my longest job at the time. And Russian is really hard to learn, let me tell you. 33 letters in their alphabet, I was working more so had less time to study, anyways I was just reading a lot, always had my nose in a book.” You explained to the men, a familiar story you’d recounted countless times now. “Eventually that got me the nickname bookworm, which over time got shortened to, what it is now… worm.”

“Ach, nowhere near as fun as I’d been hopin’.” The Scot huffs out as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Thought maybe you’da been forced to eat a worm at some point or-”

“Sergeant MacTavish!”

That first meeting had been a few weeks ago now, and you were pleasantly surprised at how well things were going. Well, almost everything. Because as kind as Price was, and as friendly as Soap was, and as inviting as Gaz was, those men only made up 3/4 of the task force. There was one other member of the 141, and the issue wasn’t that he’d been missing from that initial briefing, it was that he hadn’t said one goddamn word to you.

The entire time, the massive, intimidating, beast of a man sat in the corner of the room, eyes hidden by the shadows that the skull plated mask he wore cast over where his eyes should be, almost giving off the impression as if the figure behind were not alive. Price had introduced him as simply, Ghost, the Lieutenant. And that’s exactly what he was, a ghost hovering in the space, listening in on the stories that those alive and well were sharing around the table, never saying a word, never making a sound, never even moving.

It wasn’t until the briefing finally ended, Price explaining that he would show you towards the room that would now be yours for the indeterminate future, that you finally saw any sign of life from him, as he took no hesitation in standing to his feet and swiftly leaving the room, all without a word or look of acknowledgement in your direction.

“Don’t you be worryin’ yourself over him, wormie.” Soap had insisted one evening as he helped you spar in the gym. You were by no means a soldier, and were not expected to fight. However more and more often you work was requiring you to be on at the heart of the chaos, translating for your team on the spot in tense, increasingly dangerous situations. It was vital, no, necessary, to Price that they go over what sort of self defence you knew so that they could judge for themselves what was adequate and what needed improving before he deemed you fit to be defending yourself from more than your colleagues.

“It isn’t just you, he act this way with anyone new.” Gaz added as well from where he was stood on the edge of the mats, observing your progress (or the lack thereof rather). “Takes him time to warm up, ya see. He just doesn’t know ya yet.”

“He’s still warmin’ up to me, even now! If you’ll believe me, bonnie!” Soap had joked, wanting to squash your concerns.

The days dragged on however, and the Lieutenant’s behaviour became increasingly odd. He still would not speak to you, and so you never tried initiating contact, reading his message loud and clear. But there were times where you’d be holding multiple folders, if not boxes, of files and information on the way to a briefing, and you would run across none other than Ghost.

Rather than continuing to ignore your presence and continuing his way to the briefing room, he’d wordlessly pluck the items from your hands, carrying them in your place, pace quickening as if to leave you behind. Another time, you were practicing strapping on gear that you’d apparently be expected to wear at times depending on the climate and the situation, intent on heading straight to the gym afterwards to practice sparring, as per his idea to have you practice in actual equipment.

You knew Ghost was somewhere in the room as well, polishing some weapon or another, but you were focused on your task. That’s part of why you were so caught off guard when you stood up, thinking you’d finished gearing up correctly, and found your path to the door blocked suddenly by the Lieutenant’s immense frame taking up your line of sight.

You’d gasped in surprise at his unexpected closeness, finding your mouth gone dry when his large gloved hands reached out to your front, adjusting the straps of your tactical vest without a word. As quickly as he had appeared before you, he’d completed his task and disappeared, leaving you spinning from the interaction.

The next time, you were in the mess hall, standing awkwardly as you tried to leave a conversation but didn’t know how to do so politely. The young Sergeant had suddenly introduced himself to you as you were walking out, and the man had yet to take a single breath to allow you to speak and excuse yourself. Something apparently caught in his throat however, when he quickly clammed up, eyes going wide, gaze trained over your shoulder, before he suddenly had to be somewhere and dashed out of sight.

When you’d turned around, you’d barely caught enough of a glimpse, but you were certain it was Ghost you saw turning the corner, confusing you even further. You couldn’t make any sense of his behaviour, unsure of what to make of the situation. Things came to a head however, when Price decided it was time for the Lieutenant to begin handling your training.

Ghost casts a quick glance around the gym as he walks in, finding that he’s the first to arrive this morning, something he’s thankful for. He’s still not sure how he’s going to go about this. When Price had approached him, saying that he believed the sergeants were going too easy on you in your training and that he wanted him to take over, he knew he was not in any position to refuse.

After all, how was he meant to explain to his captain that he’d rather not be left alone with you. Not when he’d been trying to avoid you at every cost, realizing that out of the dark and the rain, wearing his usual Ghost mask that had been absent from his face the night he met you on his motorcycle, you hadn’t recognized him. And why would you? The only identifying feature you might remember from that night, was his voice, and he’d been making every effort to avoid speaking you thus far.

At first, he wasn’t sure why he was going to such lengths to avoid you, a complete 180 to the way he’d gone out of his way to help you previously. Deep down though, he knew why.

You’d called him a good man.

He’d gone back to base and touched himself, relieved himself, came all over his first like a damn teenager, all to the thought of you, the thought of your sweet voice calling him just that, a good man.

But you had only called him that because you didn’t know him, not really. Your idea of that hero riding in on a steel steed, saving you when you needed it, was not something he wanted to taint, to ruin, with the revelation that that man was actually him, the farthest thing from good there could ever be.

Realistically, he knew he couldn’t avoid you forever, not when you’d apparently be working together. God, what a shock that had been to see you stepping into the briefing room. His intention wasn’t to ignore you completely, at least not indefinitely. He only wanted to buy himself some time, give himself a chance to think of what he might say should you somehow recognize him. But then every time you were in his line of sight, the only thing he could think of was his exit strategy, how to get as far from you as possible.

And yet, even as the days turned into weeks, Simon’s avoidance of you couldn’t hide the growing affection that beginning to take form in the recesses of his heart. Any time he was within hearing range, his ears were tuned in to every word that left your mouth. When your back was turned to him, his eyes were following your every move. Even his own body was beginning to fight against his mind at times, taking initiative before he could realize that he was adjusting the straps to your tactical vest, the thought of you being in a high risk situation without being properly secured leaving a foul taste in his mouth, finding his hands relieving you of the load of whatever paperwork you were bringing to the briefing that day.

Or worse, he finds himself intimidating any man whose eyes land on your figure for a fraction of a second too long for his liking, or who has the balls to actually speak to you. Acting as though he had any right to act as your protector, to involve himself in your life like this without having ever even had the courtesy to speak to you. He really was going about this all wrong, wasn’t he?

Any further self destructive ideas Ghost might had come up with are instead cut short when he hears the hinges of the gym door squeaking open once more. His head swivels in the direction of the noise, eyes landing on none other than you. He’s seen you in your sparring sessions with the sergeants, seen you walk in full of energy, enthusiastic about proving your abilities and learning how to improve them. This morning however, you appear almost timid, trying to make yourself appear smaller as the loud thud of the door slamming shut behind you resonates out, only further emphasizing how alone you and Ghost are now.

He knows he has to be the one making you feel this way, and you aren’t without good reason. Clearing his throat, Ghost acknowledges he’s stalled as long as he can, if you’re going to recognize him, it’s just going to happen.

“Alright?” His deep, gravelly voice rings out in the space. You nearly jump in surprise but manage to school your expression. You wonder if his voice always sounds so rough, or if its a by product of the early morning hour. Whereas Soap and Gaz, ever the gentleman, had asked you what time you’d prefer to train, leading to late night sparring sessions, Price had informed you that Ghost would be meeting you in the gym before the sun had even come up. Damn military men and their early wake up times.

“I’m alright, yeah. How uh- how are you? Sir.” You reply, slowly stepping towards the training mats where Ghost is stood, muscular arms crossed over his huge chest. You tack on the ‘sir’ at the end, not wanting to get on his bad side before you even have a chance to begin training.

“Ghost will do.” He corrects you, ignoring your question otherwise. Ghost finds himself feeling antsy, almost out of his element, he doesn’t like that you’re messing with his head so much already. He’d rather get this over with. The less chit chat (and the less odds of you recognizing him by his voice), the better. “You ready?”

“Yes, I stretched before coming so, should be ready.” You answer him, finally stepping near enough that you’re within reaching distance of one another. Fuck, he’s suddenly extremely thankful you chose to do that before coming here, he’s not sure how he would’ve managed watching you bend over every which way to stretch.

“Right. Let’s see what the sergeants have taught you then.”

All in all, you’re actually not as bad as he might have expected, for someone who wasn’t a soldier. Obviously, he was going easier on you than he would’ve if it were Garrick or MacTavish he were sparring with, but he wasn’t completely letting you win either. You were fast on your feet, slippery in his grasps (maybe that’s why they should’ve named you worm), quick to think and to dodge his movements. He finds himself actually surprisingly quite pleased with you.

What he isn’t enjoying as much, or rather is probably enjoying too much and that’s the issue, are the fucking noises you keep making. Your small grunts of exertion, your puffs of breath drenched in effort, the groans you let out every time he lands a soft blow on you, not nearly as hard as he’d hit an enemy, but with enough force you knock the wind out of you each time. He’s also noticing the way the sweat drips down your neck, across your collarbone, sneaking into the heaving valley between your breasts.

There’s stirring happening in Ghost’s sweatpants and suddenly he needs this session to be over with sooner rather than later. He’s about to call it good enough for today when you open your pretty little mouth and say:

“Why are going easy me?” You’re panting, cheeks reddened with the blood pumping through you and his continues to gather somewhere it really shouldn’t be right now.

“What?” He grunts out, turning his back to you. He reaches a hand behind his neck with a towel, wiping at whatever sweaty skin his balaclava exposes.

“Look I’m not trying to pick a fight with you-” He’s cursing himself silently already at your words. “But not even Garrick or MacTavish treat me like I’m that weak. And they don’t have any issues with me being here.”

“Don’t have any issues with you.” He attempts to reply coolly, still not facing you, though he’s finding himself standing up straighter.

“With all due respect, that’s pure shit.” You retort. At this, he swings around to look at you, eyes narrowing. So she’s got some bite to her. “You’ve had an issue since I arrived, and that’s fine. I don’t need you to like me. But if you’re the one who’s apparently going to be training me now, I’d appreciate if you didn’t treat me like a kid. I’m here to do my job, and do it right. Can I expect the same from you, Lieutenant?”

If you were anyone else, he’d have you running laps around the entire base by now for talking back to him like this. Except you’re not anyone else, you’re you. And now you’re stepping closer to his space, this small thing daring to get into his face over him not training you hard enough? If harder is what you want, then harder is what you’ll get, little worm.

“You want me to go harder on you, s’that it?” He questions, taking the final step forward until your chests are now touching, and you’re having to crane your neck back to maintain eye contact. He’s close enough he sees you swallow at his question, but you don’t dare back down. Good girl. “Treat you like a big girl, s’that right?”

Suddenly struggling to find your voice, you manage what you hope is a confident nod. He’s never been so close to you before, and you’re noticing that the scent of him, even covered in sweat and likely morning breath behind his balaclava, is dizzying. Nearly intoxicating. He smells like a pure man, and you’re internally berating yourself to stay focused.

“Careful what ya wish for.” He says, barely allowing a second to pass before he’s suddenly throwing you onto the mat, flipping you onto your back, both of your hands pinned above your head in one of his large palms, his large, heavy body holding you in place underneath him, all in the blink of an eye. “What now, little worm? How are ya wrigglin’ your way out this?” He presses his mask covered mouth next to your ear, feeling a shiver go through your body at his words.

He’s careful to keep his now raging erection away from you, leaning his hips back but still pressing enough weight on you to keep you from budging. To your credit, you do try to get out from underneath him, but it’s a losing battle from the start, you’re no match for his size, especially with both hands above your head like this. Your cheeks are reddening in a mix of effort and embarrassment, and Ghost finds himself enjoying this view far too much.

“See, I was actually bein’ quite nice to ya,” He adds, barely tightening his grip on your hands, as if to remind you that he’s not even using his full strength with you. “But out there, wormie. They’re not gon’ be so kind-”

Whatever Ghost was going to say is cut off by a genuine, ragged gasp erupting from behind his mask. In your effort to free yourself, you’ve lifted your hips, unknowingly rubbing yourself against the bulge straining in the front of his sweatpants. Shocked by his reaction, you stay frozen in place, still pressed against what you can now tell is his throbbing member. And from what you can fell, it’s huge.

You’re momentarily caught off guard by his reaction to you. You weren’t exactly expecting… this. But his delicious, masculine odor is filling your nostrils, it feels as if every inch of you is pinned down by every inch of him, you can feel every twitch of his muscles and can practically count the steady beating of his heart through his cock pressing intro your thigh. And though you’ve always prided yourself on thinking first, acting second, you can’t exactly explain why you find yourself slowly beginning to rock your hips forward.

“This is you bein’ nice, Lieutenant?” You attempt to ask coyly, though you can’t hide the breathy way your voice comes across. Before you can pull your hips back anymore however, Ghost is suddenly releasing you from his grasp, standing to full height and dashing out of the room before you have a chance to even sit up.

Well, that went well.

The birds have only just begun to chirp when there’s a loud banging at your door early the next morning. You’re confused, prepared to tell whoever is on the other side of the door that it had better be a matter of life or death, when you come face to face with none other than a Ghost.

“What are-”

“If training starts at 0500, then you are to be in the gym at 0500. Understood?” His gravelly voice demands. A quick glance to your watch tells you it’s 3 minutes past 5 in the morning. You had been certain after yesterdays debacle that Ghost would never want to train with you again, assuming that he’d speak with Price about handing you back over to the sergeants somehow.

So why does the sight of this gigantic masked man standing in your doorway, so large he blocks most of the light coming in from the hall, someone who’s done nothing but piss you off so far, arriving in absolute insistence that you continue sparring together, have your thighs suddenly clenching together?

“I thought that-” You cut yourself off as you watch him tilt his head, almost as if daring you to finish that sentence. “Yes sir.”

“Get changed. You’ve got 60 seconds.” He informs you before reach to shut your door for you.

That’s how you find yourselves alone in the gym a short time later, training resuming. To his credit, Ghost does not go as easy on you this time as he did yesterday, genuinely challenging your abilities in self-defence and close quarters combat, teaching you moves that Soap and Gaz had apparently not considered necessary.

“If you’re ever in a situation where it’s your life on the line,” he had said between clenched teeth as he taught you to dodge his blows more effectively, as if the thought of you in actual danger enraged him enough to chip a tooth. “I want you doing anything necessary, to get out o’ there. Understood? You make it out.”

By the end of the session, Ghost himself is panting with exertion, the both of you having put in more energy than you would have, were you sparring with anyone else. You watch him, hands on his hips as he catches his breath, head tilted slightly to the ceiling, and you decide it’s as a good opportunity as any to try and catch him off guard, feeling confident in yourself.

Foolishly confident.

Before you even manage to land a finger on him, he’s flipping you into the very same position as you found yourselves in yesterday, you on your back with him above you, one of his hands pinning the both of yours above your head as his other is planted by your waist, warm breaths meeting in the middle.

“That, I never want to see you do again.”

“Was worth a try.”

“Was it?”

You slowly raise your hips, unsurprised when you make contact with his steel hard cock above you, teasingly rubbing yourself against his length.

“Maybe.” You whisper, eyes searching his glazed over expression. You find his pupils have darkened to the point they eclipse almost all colour, specks of black eye paint smudged around his eyes have caught onto his eyelashes. He’s so close to you, you’re able to make them out as blond. Something about being near enough to the mysterious, alluring Ghost to know that he’s blond under that mask causes the blush on your cheeks to darken further.

As caught up as you are in the obvious want you find behind his eyes, there’s something about them that almost, somehow seem familiar. As if you’ve looked into these eyes before, in a different place, a different context, a different time.

Any rational thoughts are cut off however, when you both hear and feel Ghost growl, the hand that was planted at your side now coming to sneak between your back and the floor, pulling your front somehow even closer to his muscular chest. There isn’t an inch of space between the two of you now, your heads falling beside each other, temple to temple, as his grip on the situation finally slips, his resolves breaks, and he begins to grind against you.

You let out a gasp, the feeling of his pulsing member rubbing against your centre, even with all the layers of clothing, is sinfully delicious. You suspect he’s feeling the same way, because his grip on your waist tightens, hips bucking already with more insistence. His grunts are music to your ears, as are the small moans and whimpers you let out into his neck. You’ve wrapped one leg behind him, widening your hips as far as they’ll allow, granting him as much access to your core as his large frame needs. Having released your hands to allow himself to explore the soft squeeze of your breasts through your workout shirt, your fingers in turn are roaming up and down his back, across his shoulders, fingers nails scratching at the fabric of his shirt.

Ghost knows he’s not going to last long. When he’d gone to get you this morning for your sparring session, he was determined not to let yesterday’s events get in the way of his professionalism. You were right, after all. You both had a job to do, and he would ensure you could do it right. He would sleep better at night anyways, knowing you were properly trained in how to defend yourself. Trained by him, and his hands. He hadn’t intended for the session to end the way yesterday’s had, with you laying beneath his raging erection on the sweaty training mats, though he wouldn’t lie and say he hadn’t hoped for it in some small part.

He knows he’s not going to last long because he’s finally, somehow, got you here underneath him, and your small sounds of pleasure are better than anything his twisted imagination could have ever conjured up. He shouldn’t take it any farther than this. This is already going too far, humping you into the ground of the gym fully clothed like a pair of teenagers who can’t keep their hands to themselves. But that’s exactly what you make him feel like though, isn’t it?

No, he won’t go farther than this, won’t allow himself to take more than this. This alone is more than he feels he deserves. God, how he wishes he could give you what you deserve though. Releasing your breasts from his continued groping, he snakes his hands down your stomach, meeting the hem of your pants, allowing his digits to slip beneath the band of your underwear, fingers instantly finding your pulsating clit between your soaked folds. Your moans only grow louder as he begins to quickly bring you closer to your peak, one of your hands coming to cover your mouth should anyone happen to be walking by.

It feels as if the two of you are caught in a raging storm, two inevitable waves colliding with one another in a fury likened only to mother nature’s doing. You’re both reaching your peaks together, tumbling over the edge into pure, mind numbing bliss, as you continue to hold onto one another, as though you’re life preservers in the sea, seeing each other through to the end of the end of the fall.

Ghost can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed at the fact that he’s cum in his pants. Not when he’s searing your blissed out expression into his mind forever. You’re both panting now, coming back to your senses, remembering your surroundings, as well as the fact that with the time that’s passed, it’s becoming increasingly likely for anyone to walk in.

Taking one last look at you, squeezing your side with what might just be affection, Ghost begrudgingly rolls himself off of you, coming to stand, readjusting the front of his now wet sweatpants. He turns himself around, extending a hand out to you, which you accept, allowing him to pull you up.

Only you don’t let go of his hand right away. Instead, you tighten your grip on his palm, pull him closer to you, narrowing your eyes at him, a cheeky smile spreading across your lips.

“So,” you say, licking your lips. “Same time tomorrow?”

Longest chapter ever and first time writing sort of smut! Feel like I’m earning my place on tumblr lol

Reader gets a call sign and a bit of a back story! Hope it wasn’t too long or boring to read, it’s literally only because I really wanted to justify naming reader as ‘worm’ because there is absolutely definitely without a question eventually going to be a chapter where worm is drunk and crying about how the boys are saying they wouldn’t love her if she turned into a worm thank you that is all

- M 🫶🏻

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godihatethiswebsite · 6 months ago

Text

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Two - The aftermath

So many of you came out of the woodwork for this story and I couldn't be more grateful for all the kind words of encouragement! I'm truly flattered by the amount of love this received for being something that randomly popped in my head on a whim ❤️

I'm glad I was able to get this part out so quickly. It might be a tick before part three, but I've already got some of it worked out. I'll still try to keep chipping away at it while I work on my other series~

Trigger warnings: swearing, angst, depression

“I saw them the other day.”

“...saw who?”

“My scent matches.”

There’s a pregnant pause as your therapist of four years takes the information in, caught off guard by the abruptness of the statement but also the further implications behind the words.

Dr. Miranda has been your life raft and confidant ever since you’d first gone to your family with the appalling reality of your newfound situation. An omega like yourself; she specializes in the treatment and rehabilitation of women who've endured abuse at the hands of their packmates and the dredges of society. Highly recommended by the United Designation Resource Center for psychological trauma.

It had taken you over a week following the incident to gather the strength to confront your fathers on the thorny subject - too ashamed of admittance and too anxious of their response. And even then it was done over the phone in the most uncomfortable video call of your life, the dour atmosphere so at odds with that blessedly clear mid-afternoon sky, its temperate climate and soft summer breeze carrying along an enchanting melody of carefree innocence.

Inside, it was raining.

The wretched bond was a gravity well, sucking you down into a chasmic abyss and siphoning your once bountiful vibrancy. Responsibilities fell by the wayside, locked away in your self-imposed prison as if the globe would simply stop moving if you only ignored its rotations. Not until both your fathers made the three hour flight up north did you muster the courage to finally remove the makeshift barricade guarding your front door, talking through the deceptively difficult act with them on the other end of the phone as the two alphas supported you during the twenty five minutes it took to overcome the all-consuming panic and usher them inside.

They stayed with you for the better part of the month, taking over where depression had failed you in your efforts to function alone. Your parents allowed you space to look after yourself, clearing away the physical filth of your living quarters and, in doing so, sweeping away the cobwebs of your teetering sanity. They scrubbed at putrid greasy plates while you scoured tainted flesh under a scalding hot stream, the dead skin cells contaminated by his poisonous touch spiraling down the drain along with your tears.

The harsh truth of the matter is that there is no escape from your own body. You come screaming into this world given one to do with as you will, to mold and shape based on lived experiences with no regard for the decisions and circumstances made outside your control. There is no space to slip between the weaved threads of time, no hands to turn counter clockwise when you make a mistake. Just a grim acceptance that the life you once aspired to was forevermore out of reach.

There was only so much to be done given your situation. As much aid as your family offered, they were as helpless of bystanders as the soul in your meat suit. Chores were completed, accumulated bills paid, a hearty meal piled high on your plate combating the recent gauntness of your face. You were cherished and fussed over like the wee babe found scattered amongst family photos in your childhood home, cradled in their arms when the horrid presence came calling, dragging a hot poker through your insides and causing mental anguish at all hours of the night.

The more time they spent around you, the more apparent it was that you could no longer stay there. The closer the proximity to your bonded alpha the more power he held to disrupt your life.

That's how you landed in Dr. Miranda’s lap. Before you'd even set foot on the tarmac arrangements had been made for a new life in a new city on the other side of the country - spiriting you away on a mission to regain your independence, the distance easing the damage he could do even as the strained bond churned.

Initially dreading having to confess the horrors you’d endured to some random unknown, she’d worked diligently to soothe your broken nerves in both demeanor and environment. A kind omega in her early forties, the subtle crows feet and laugh lines only accentuated her cheerful personality, disarming in her ability to draw out your insecurities and work with you through the trauma in a way that didn’t feel intruding.

Dr. Miranda was a veritable well of understanding, always encouraging of whatever pace you set, careful of the fragile boundaries constructed to guard your heart from further damage.

She operated as part of a larger business that provided therapeutic services and catered to all designations alike. You’d been thrilled to find there was a separate entrance away from the cacophony of the common room, bypassing the headache of having to wait amongst strangers and leading directly to her office in the back right corner of the building.

The space itself was considerably cozy, low lit warmth all plush and homely. The spacious couch against the back wall invited you to stretch out comfortably, decorative pillows available in a colorful assortment of textures - catering to a discerning omega’s personal preferences. A small diffuser wafting light refreshing mists operated as both a handy descenting spray and an emotional pick me up. Every accommodation purposeful, given special care for your emotional easement and wellbeing.

You appreciated the effort she put into making her office feel more like a living room than a sterile setting. It was easier for you to converse when it felt like you were speaking with a friend.

Bit by bit, Dr. Miranda coaxed you from the sheltered recesses in which you’d burrowed; not just a guiding hand through the concrete dust and collapsed rubble, but a mentor recovering your confidence, reminding you of the path you once walked independently and peeling back the suffocating layers that kept you from standing on your own two feet.

In hindsight, you probably could’ve broken the news of your scent match a bit less abrasively - probably should’ve led with it too.

The pair of you had been engrossed in a topic that was moreso a follow up from your last session rather than anything of actual import. Your brain had been functioning on autopilot the past twenty odd minutes, making sounds vaguely human enough to get by without requiring proper attention. Honestly, most of her words had been drowned out by the incessant buzzing in your ear that had been slowly growing in volume, throat clenching and knuckles flexing, more aware of the sweat dripping down the back of your nape than anything she had to proffer.

Eventually the dam just broke. The words slipped out like grease, lubricated in a film of oil too slick to be contained and begging to be addressed.

There’s a struggle on her face to try and maintain some level of professionalism after the sudden revelation. Knitted eyebrows spiked before smoothing back down, jaw almost dropping until she remembered herself and switched it from an ‘o’ to a relaxed flat line. She mirrored your own position on the couch from her velvet wingback chair, sitting cross legged with an air of casualness. Her only remaining tell was her hands fidgeting in her lap as if her fingers itched to shake you down like a coconut tree or pry your brain open like a valuable specimen.

Knowing the scarcity of scent bonding, this may have very well been the first time she’s come across this scenario - whether in her personal life or from her spot opposite you in her seat.

“How are you feeling about the encounter?” A loaded question if ever there was one, giving you plenty of breathing room to start the conversation however you needed and giving her a chance to compartmentalize.

You tried to focus on the initial emotions, remembering that first brush of sweet alpha pheromones on your olfactory senses. The rush of endorphins as your inner omega staked her claim with that first gulp of built up citrus infused drool.

“I didn’t know I could feel like that...” There was a breathy quality to your tone as you visibly brightened, gazing at the plush rug in the center of the room without actually viewing it, a glow to your smile that was soft in your reminiscence. “They don’t prepare you for that first whiff at the Academy. It’s almost like…”

How could you explain in the span of a few sentences what the most ardent poets struggled with over the course of a lifetime?

“It’s like when someone grows up not being able to breathe properly and they don’t even realize it’s a problem. To them it’s normal to be in a constant state of dyspnea because that’s all they’ve ever known. No one else might be complaining about it, but no one’s asked them about it either. They just assume that's how your lungs are supposed to function and carry on none the wiser.”

Dr. Miranda nodded along, ever patient as you attempted to spew out your thoughts in an at least semi-coherent structure.

“But then, one day, they’re walking behind a guy who’s fumbling with his attempt to shove a small object back in his pocket and watches as it falls to the sidewalk. They pick it up off the ground like a good citizen; strike up a conversation. Ask him about the strange contraption the guy calls an inhaler - learns there's another way to breathe. And so they go home and tell their mom what’s been going on with them and she takes them to see the doctor who gets them one of their own. And when that first dose of medicated mist gets sucked into their lungs…”

The image of a wide eyed innocent gasping in a world full of untold possibilities as if reborn from the ashes of their previous life, no longer chained down by the invisible restrictions tethering them to the globe, eyes glistening full of wonderment at how something so small can be something so cosmically life altering.

With each new breath, they soar.

You’re pulled out of your musings and back to reality as your own lungs expand, something weightless shimmering in your gaze, glassy eyed and perfectly at ease. “Now I know why they call it living.”

The words are floated around the space with a sort of reverence akin to hearing a favored childhood fairy tale read aloud at their mother’s knee. Something wistful and longing and filled with effervescent hope.

“Sounds heavenly...” Her own voice was just as breathy, living vicariously through the moment she herself hasn't experienced. Curling her legs up under herself, Dr. Miranda encouraged, “tell me more.”

“There were two of them,” you went on, smile turning playful and newly invigorated. “The first one was just this big bulk of an alpha. I mean, seriously, he was properly huge!” Animated arms opened wide for emphasis, your grin reaching almost the same diameter. “Built like a fucking linebacker or something. I can only imagine what he must do for a living. Kinda gives off scary vibes, but like… in a non sketchy way? He dresses a bit like a drug dealer, but feels more like a gym teacher. Maybe that’s just me being biased ‘cause he smells like a cupcake, I dunno.”

The energy you gave off was infectious. Dr. Miranda couldn’t help but join in with amused laughter, endeared to the way you were lighting up the room. It wasn’t often she got to see you like this, glimpsing the lighthearted woman you were before the accident. It was a welcome sight after so much negativity. “And the other?”

“Fuuuuck me, Doc.” You groaned good naturedly, head falling back to rest against the spine of the couch as your limbs went limp. “Swear to god he was the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life. Gorgeous smile. Like, I’ve always been a casual fan of coconut, but after that encounter…” You shuddered. “I just wanna roll around in an entire box of fucking samoas.”

“And do these tasty specimens have names?”

Just like that, you wilted.

The temperature shifted rapidly, a violent change that dragged out of your whimsy and back into a world where life didn’t discriminate between those deserving of heaven and those who broke their way in to taint the ghosts at peace.

She picked up on it immediately, back straightening as if you weren’t the only one in the room with a chill suddenly dripping down their spine.

Your admission came from a voice far more fragile than she’d heard in a very long time. “...I never got to ask.”

Recounting the excruciating memory was like shoving needles underneath your nailbeds, bringing up the other person in the room keeping you from wanton bliss, describing the torture you’d endured witnessing them existing with their own omega unaware of the damage she’d inadvertently done. You relayed their moment of recognition and sympathy. The confusion on the poor omega’s face.

How you turned tail and fled like a coward from the scene.

“I panicked,” came the strained confession, stumbled out in a frantic rush that spoke volumes of your frazzled mental state. “I-I didn’t know what else to do! I couldn’t just waltz up to them all willy nilly and throw a wrench in whatever the hell kinda life they’d already built. I mean, she was right there! How was I supposed to fawn over the men who should’ve been mine to keep when they were never mine to begin with?!”

You flinched away from the unwanted flashback of silvery bite marks, the pale white indents plastered on her skin displayed proudly beneath the collar of her coat like an olympic medal. So at odds with the ones mirrored on your own flesh, hidden now under a thick cotton turtleneck that you fought the urge to scratch.

Dr. Miranda listened closely, keen eyes analyzing the familiar body language and monitoring your growing levels of distress. She watched as you picked apart a loose hanging thread with jittery deftness until inevitably too much unwound and fluffy white stuffing poked out between the seams of the pillow clutched like a life jacket to your chest.

“I can only imagine the hurt you must’ve felt in that moment…”

Where once your voice had been full of life, now there was only a grave emptiness. Color had been sucked from your aura the same way it had been from the room. There was no hiding from your devastation in the tiny office, the frayed threads of the cashmere pillow a reflection revealing the true turmoil roiling beneath the skin. It rotted from the inside out, exposing the vulnerable squishy interior and keeping you reliving the same brutal lacerations again and again and again.

“...I hadn’t even considered it a possibility, you know…?”

Hadn’t allowed yourself the concept of hope.

“And suddenly it was right there - the answer to all my problems. For a brief moment, I was shown a glimpse of a better life. A future… one where I didn't wake up with earth shattering headaches and relentless nausea and I’d actually have energy to do more than just be a useless fucking couch potato and there could be laughter and healing and–”

You weren’t sure at which point in your stream of consciousness you’d started crying, nor when you fitfully clawed into the padded fabric, shredding the delicate material as it twisted and stretched in your trembling hands.

“I wish I never ran into them at the store... I wish I could’ve kept living in stupid fucking ignorance. At least then they could’ve just stayed made up characters in my head. Anything would’ve been better than this–” you spat angrily, chucking the mangled remains of the pillow on the ground and gritting your teeth through the onslaught of tears. “Having them ripped away from me like some sick fucking joke! Like the universe hasn’t already crushed my hopes and dreams and laughed in my face for wanting a normal fucking life!? Well guess what, gods? You win! Okay?! You fucking win! Take my heart! I don't want it anymore!”

Consoling arms encapsulated your quivering form, the comforting florals of Dr. Miranda’s airy omega scent projecting like a protective blanket and overpowering the tart bitterness of your once sweetened pear turned ashen in your mouth.

The floodgates opened. They couldn't be stopped.

“I’m just so fucking sick of this!” Your screams of devastation become muffled against the softness of her pink knitted sweater, harsh blubbering sobs broken up by heaving gasps as you mourn the life you’ll never have. “I hate him... I hate him! I don’t wanna do this anymore! I just want my fucking life back!”

There are no words that can fix the lesions of the heart. There’s no comfort of a better tomorrow that she can wax poetic whilst drying your tears. Sometimes grief cannot be mended - only managed. And sometimes that means accepting the bad days with the learned knowledge that not all anger is made of evil.

Holding you close, lulling you into a guarded safety with a placating purr, she grants you reprieve from the mask that you wear.

Not much more was discussed in the aftermath. The remaining time was dedicated to helping you stabilize from the emotional trauma, bringing you down carefully to avoid dropping into a catatonic state. She’d witnessed it with you before - at the start of your visits. When the grief was still too near and your triggers splayed out like a million mouse traps all primed to go off. Avoiding them was all but impossible in those early days. Three hours of your life were forever lost to time, the only proof of its occurrence the foggy aftermath filled memory of cold dampened skin and sweat soaked weighted blankets clutched tight in a dark room, uncontrollable trembles wracking your form and a bone deep exhaustion as if you’d just ran ten miles.

Dr. Miranda never once left your side.

Trudging your way back to your vehicle, the air inside the car was only mildly warmer than its outer counterpart, sinking into the rigid cloth seats and listening to the laboured clicks of the old engine grappling to turn over in the bitter cold. Snowflakes gathered on your coat began to melt as it finally gave way, puttering to life and filling the space with dense heated air.

You huffed out a loaded sigh, absentmindedly scratching at the already abused skin as you felt his presence poking experimentally across the bond. As if you didn’t have enough on your plate without him adding his delightful input, sniffing around your emotions like a trained bloodhound attuned to your melancholic brooding.

He was a spiteful thing; had been since he first opened his eyes the next morning from his drug induced stupor and found the pretty thing he’d coveted had just up and vanished. You never knew when he’d invade the sanctity of your mind. The flicker of amusement from his end was the telltale proof this was all just a sick game.

The bonds didn’t allow any actual communication. There were no words passed back and forth, no sudden powers of telepathy. Just intense sensations - emotions conveyed as though tangible and speaking ideas down an invisible phone line.

The whole point of a mating bite in the first place was to bring a further cohesion to the packs. As an omega, you were the fixed point in space around which all other members orbited. A mediator of sorts; it was your job to smooth the serrated edges of an alpha’s instincts, regulating their emotional needs and nurturing them to achieve a sense of balance - and vice versa.

An omega’s naturally empathetic nature meant you were frequently prone to becoming easily overstimulated. It was an alpha’s duty to soothe your frazzled nerves.

He liked to abuse his privileges.

Sometimes he went days without pestering, others his tiresome machinations seemed unending. The longest reprieve had been just shy of three weeks, lured into a false sense of optimism that just maybe he’d overdosed and freed you from his haunting clutches. His return was a hot knife stabbing into your skull, grinding and drilling like a makeshift lobotomy for the clinically insane.

You were grateful for the miles between now softening the blows. Once he’d begun to feel the strain on the flight to your current city whittling away at the strength of your bond, he’d lashed out in unbridled fury. You’d spent the first leg of the trip huddled on your knees in the airplane stall, his mental punishment sawing into your ribs and expelling the simple breakfast you’d eaten an hour prior.

Sobs of anguish turned to tears of relief as time went on and his reach stretched thin across the continent.

The bond withdrawals came afterwards. His presence still lurked in the tether that binds you, but no more than a casual thought in the back of your mind, the quiet voice that whispers on the edge of a canyon daring you to ‘jump’.

The bond withdrawals were now the worst of your worries. It was hard to function on a day to day basis when the same distance granting you a second chance caused you to become physically - sometimes violently - ill. Instances like that, Zofran was your best friend.

Buckling your seatbelt, you waged an internal battle over whether or not to do the responsible thing of making a second attempt at grocery shopping (despite your best efforts over the past two days, you hadn’t yet figured out how to miraculously will food to materialize in your barren pantry). Statistically speaking you were most likely safe from another encounter… unless they’d pulled a you and hadn’t left with their wares either.

But if you didn’t have the luxury before to keep putting it off then you certainly hadn’t acquired it now.

Math was on your side as you emerged with a full cart of goods and a lack of new therapy material. You’d still been the most skittish paranoid thing ever, scurrying quickly through the aisles like the CIA was out to get you, scanning your periphery and emerging quickly from the self checkout lanes to hurry towards your car. But just because you’d been successful in your venture doesn’t mean you weren’t followed along by fuzzy raised brows and curious - if not judgemental - looks.

It was an odd notion - being terrified of the one thing that should’ve made you feel secure. It was all you could do to distract yourself from the frustrating realization that this was a game you’d be playing for the foreseeable future unless you shelled out the extra cash to bypass doing the chore yourself.

That would have to be a worry for another time. Right now, all you desired was to curl up in your tiny studio apartment with a home cooked microwaved meal and lose yourself in the diversion that was the food network channel.

But first: caffeine.

You ignored the nagging ghost of responsibility tugging at your ear as you pulled into a parking spot alongside the main road, stepping out of the warm confines of your car and hurrying inside the nestled hole in the wall you frequented a few times a week for a caffeinated boost.

Large crowds still bothered you even with the reassurance he wasn't there, as if he could somehow physically slink out of the bond formed between you and hide amongst the chittering rabble waiting for an opportune moment of weakness to strike. Thankfully you’d arrived after the mid afternoon rush - although there were still a few stragglers with the same mindset as you eager to escape the frosty air with something warm on an otherwise picturesque snowy winter’s day.

The chiming bell above the door hailed your arrival, festive drink flavors assaulting your nose and instantly watering your mouth. Smoky chestnut praline, rich peppermint mocha, enticing caramel brulee. Cranberry laden pastries, chewy gingerbread cookies; all folded together in a Christmasy mix laced with the pleasant aroma of freshly ground coffee beans.

Your mind zeroed in on exactly what it wanted, pinpointing the most succulent fragrance amongst the bountiful bouquet, cutting through the sea of heavy pheromones belonging to the other patrons and hitting something raw inside your weary soul.

The veritable nectar of the gods.

A rich shot of bold espresso. Sweetly caramelized with smooth, creamy, chocolatey undertones. It zapped your spine with a jolt of adrenaline, awakening your senses while simultaneously soothing them. The first relaxing sip of a perfectly hot beverage. The golden liquid flowed down the back of your throat and alleviated the tangled knots still keeping you on edge, settling like a sturdy hand on your shoulder and allowing you the chance to breathe easy.

Something about the blend had your inner omega preening, ears perked up and startling a small purr from your chest that had you blinking down at your torso in surprised confusion. You’d barely stepped foot inside the cafe and suddenly the craving had expanded tenfold, something ravenous and feral urging your steps towards the counter that you had to fight to withstand.

Shrugging off the intense hunger as a simple lack of shoving something slightly more substantial in your mouth before leaving this morning, you adjusted the strap of your purse more securely on your shoulder and raised your eyes level to the awaiting interior.

Right into the most alluring shade of brilliant azure - sparkling like sapphires and already fixated on you.

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